


Gravitation

by Kaleidoscope



Series: The Risk'verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abortion, Acceptance, Amputation, Angst, Body Horror, Body Image, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon Related, Depression, Draco in a cellar, Draco loves his mummy, Epic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Violence, Loss of Virginity, Lucius is a terrible father, Making Friends, Making Out, Making Up, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Oral Sex, Romance, Sadness, Slow Burn, Smut, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Deathly Hallows, Too many feels, Trauma, Triggers, Well - Freeform, What might actually happen after you've been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, almost compliant, dealing with FEELINGS, set during war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3824242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleidoscope/pseuds/Kaleidoscope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gravitation [Law III: To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.]<br/>Set during The Deathly Hallows; the trio's search for the horcruxes was abandoned when Griphook absconded with the Sword of Gryffindor, leaving the three - traumatised and disheartened - to return to join the rest of the Order in the fight against Voldemort. Several months later, a maimed, disillusioned, and broken Draco surrenders himself to the Order after he earns Voldemort's displeasure, and Hermione finds herself warden of the prisoner in the cellar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

* * *

 

**Gravitation**

_[Law III: To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.]_

* * *

**  
Prologue: Of Monsters and Men **

_You're gone, gone, gone away_

_I watched you disappear_

_All that's left is the ghost of you._

_[Little Talks, Of Monsters and Men]_

* * *

Bellatrix was like a witch from a Muggle child's nightmare. She hung over Hermione leering, crying, " _Crucio!_ " again and again with mad, desperate glee. It was like nothing...ever. Hermione couldn't think while it was happening, couldn't breathe; all she could do was scream until her throat gave out. She understood why Neville's parents had gone mad, and wondered if she would -  _when_  she would. Everything hurt. It was indescribable. From the first she wished for death. It would have been preferable - anything but this. Anything. If it would only stop. And then it  _would_  stop, and Bellatrix would bare another bit of flesh to carve with her blade. Hermione wept helplessly, her dignity stripped from her by the pain. Even the searing burn of having her skin sliced into by Bellatrix was a blessed relief compared to the horror of the  _cruciatus_  curse.

Faint yells drifted to her ears whenever she fell silent; Ron, screaming her name impotently, each helpless invocation of her name cutting into her like Bellatrix's blade. She tried not to listen and looked anywhere but at Bella's insane smile. Narcissa came into view now and then, a pale worried face hovering in the periphery of Hermione's blurred vision. Lucius stood closer, his haggard face distorted by Hermione's veil of tears, his eyes turning between his worried wife and his sister-in-law's current amusement. She shrieked and felt her throat tear as Bellatrix giggled.

"Mudblood. Now everyone who sees you will know what you are." There was such pleasure in Bellatrix's voice, such pure joy; the witch was barking mad and it was terrifying. Hermione choked and sobbed, coughing up blood and snot. She lay there limply between rounds of  _cruciatus_  and fixed all her focus on one thing. The person she hated most in the room. Draco Malfoy. He was so tall now; he loomed above her, standing close to Bellatrix as the mad witch had insisted he do. Bella thought Draco enjoyed watching Hermione be tortured, but Hermione could see enough to know better, even through her delirious haze of pain.

He was terrified and sickened, his ferret-pointed features paler than usual. His grey eyes never met Hermione's, avoiding them, lingering instead on the mutilation his aunt was inflicting. And that made her hate him more than anyone else  _ever_. He knew it was wrong - and he still didn't help her. The others, they were just pure evil - and you couldn't hate evil people in the same way you could hate good people that did evil things. Although Hermione didn't believe Draco had ever been  _good_  as such, he still wasn't evil in the way his father and Bellatrix were.

"Draco," she croaked for the hundredth time and his pressed-tight lips twitched, his broad skinny shoulders hunched further up around his ears and his wand hand twitched almost as though he wanted to do something. "Please!" Hermione begged him and he heard her and did nothing. Bellatrix laughed, awful screeching sounds and cried out again.

" _Crucio! Crucio! CRUCIO!_ " And Hermione screamed, and screamed, and screamed. And when her body finally went limp she stared at Draco with pleading, bloodshot eyes, willing him to listen to her.

"Draco. Draco I beg you. Draco,  _please_..." She felt as though she was debasing herself for him, and she no longer cared at all.

"The mudblood wants you, Draco. What does the mudblood think you can give her? Death maybe...or something else? Hah, yes...something else, maybe? Come on love, ask her," Bella cooed and Draco shot a hunted look at his aunt and shuffled slowly forward. Hermione felt sick as she realised what Bellatrix was insinuating, and another level of fear washed over her. Bella prodded him, and Draco looked at Hermione - at her half-exposed chest with the words 'mudblood', 'scum', and 'whore' scrawled bloody above her simple white cotton bra.

"What do you want?" The words were barely audible, a dull low murmur. Hermione stared at his platinum blonde head as though she could burn a hole through his skull.

"Draco.  _Draco_. We were at school together. I - I thought I knew you. You're not like this. You're not this person. Please. I never thought... Please, Draco. Help me," she begged him incoherently and his eyes finally met with hers. Anguish and shame marred his perfect features - so perfect. No blood or snot or tears on Draco's face. Only Hermione's.

 _Mudblood_.

She sobbed, half-disgusted with herself for begging but unable to stop herself, and Bellatrix laughed shrill and amused. "Please! Please  _Draco_...just do it, kill me.  _Please_." He flinched and his grey eyes swam glinting silver with tears and Hermione  _hated_  him. He didn't have the  _right_  to be upset over this when she was the one being ripped apart. How dare he?

"I - I..." Draco shook his head and backed off a step, shining grey eyes still fixed with Hermione's bloodshot brown.

"Please!  _Please_ , Draco! I'm begging you  _please_  just kill me. Just kill me.  _Please_." The words tumbled out of her in a rushing tumbling sob, putting every ounce of emotion that she had left into pleading with the boy she had always despised. Trying desperately to convince him to end her life. Even dazed and in agony as she was, Hermione could see the irony in it. Draco whimpered - actually whimpered, and stumbled back shaking his head, horror printed all over his face. Horrified by his inability, Hermione thought hazily. Because he looked as though he cared, in some sick, cowardly sort of way. He cared but he was too damn cowardly to do anything. She  _despised_  him.

" _I hate you! I hate you! I -_ " Hermione's feet drummed against the floor as she fought the spell that kept her immobile and spittle flew from her bloodied lips as she roared the words at Draco, who only crumpled in on himself even more. Hermione's maddened shrieks were only cut short when Bellatrix grew bored with the show, and shouted:

" _Crucio!_ "

And Hermione screamed without words, animalistic and awful as Draco watched, trembling.

* * *

When Harry and Ron came charging stupidly - bravely - out to rescue Hermione, she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Chaos erupted around her in a split second and Hermione came back to herself slowly, the spell Bella had cast on her keeping her spreadeagled on the floor as Harry took on Bellatrix, and Ron attacked Lucius Malfoy.

"Hang on, Hermione!" Harry sounded like Sirius, Hermione thought to herself, so cocksure and reckless, no thought of failure entering his mind. Relief flooded her limbs and gave her a rush of energy and she struggled against the hex that pinned her like a helpless beetle to the marble floor of the Malfoy Manor. Nothing happened. A sob choked from her aching throat. She had to get free and get to her wand; two metres away and dropped carelessly on the floor by Bellatrix as she'd spun to face Harry.

Bella and Harry were flinging curses back and forth madly, and Hermione decided then and there that they had to start using spells stronger than  _expelliarmus_ and _stupefy_. Voldemort's right-hand woman was using two of the Unforgiveables and any number of dark spells that were designed purely to maim and rend flesh and psyche. Harry wasn't going to be able to sustain the frenetic level of duelling Bellatrix was engaging in for very much longer if he kept only using defensive or immobilising spells. If he got a hit in Bellatrix would be stunned or wandless - if she hit Harry, however, he'd be dead or in an enormous amount of pain.

Head surprisingly clear in the aftermath of her torture, Hermione resolved to stop being noble and good when it came to fighting the Death Eaters, bitterness seeping through her and leaching strength into her bones.

Ron, surprisingly, was holding up well against Lucius - Hermione would never have expected it from him but he was casting not mere stun and disarming spells, but spells to hurt and injure if not actually kill. She felt a little touch of warmth and worry - it was because of her that Ron was fighting so ferociously, and Hermione hoped that if he killed Lucius he wouldn't feel too bad about it. None of them had ever killed before, and Hermione guessed the first time always had to be difficult.

She redirected her dazed and skittering attention to her immediate situation, hoping that with Bellatrix distracted the spell would falter and Hermione would be able to break free of her invisible bonds. But no such luck. She swore and sobbed and struggled weakly, blood loss making her head swim. It seemed like hours but it could only have been several minutes at most since Ron and Harry had broken into the hall, when a face appeared above her. Draco Malfoy. Hermione shrank in on herself and was suddenly, acutely, aware of her half-nakedness; the damp patch on her jeans from wetting herself during a  _crucio_ , the slurs scribed into her pale skin, the runny snot drying beneath her nose. She was filthy and disgusting and helpless and if he wanted he could do...anything... Her mind shied away from the possibilities and she blanked out, not thinking straight.

"Don't," she whimpered and he flinched at the implied accusation.

"Draco!" A hoarse, low cry drifted across to the pair of them and the blonde glanced back over his shoulder toward the hushed female voice. "Draco! Grab the Mudblood and hurry!"

"Go mother! I'll follow behind!" he hissed back loudly, flapping his wand hand as though to shoo Narcissa away. Even in her terror Hermione found herself capable of despising Malfoy for his cowardliness. Draco looked back down at Hermione, face unreadable, and raised his wand. Hermione shut her eyes tight for a moment, steeling herself for whatever it was Draco was going to do - terrified that he was going to do what his family wanted and spirit her away to a place where the torture could continue. Anything but that.

" _Releshio_ ," he whispered under his breath and Hermione opened her eyes in time to see Draco finish the complex little wand flick that accompanied the releasing spell. Her mind was reeling as she repeated the word in her head -  _R-releshio?_ But  _why?_ But when she tried to move her arms they  _moved_. Draco Malfoy appeared to have really freed her...what in Merlin's name...?

"Draco?" Hermione's voice broke as she queried what the hell was going on, and she realised that today was the first time that she had ever addressed him by his first name. She sat up with a moan, watching him with darkly suspicious eyes and tugging at the shreds of her shirt ineffectively.

" _Accio_ Hermione's wand." Draco gave it to her as soon as it had settled in his large hand, pressing it into her smaller one with a strangely pained expression. Hermione guessed neither Malfoy's family nor Voldemort would be very happy with him for 'letting' her escape. "Get out of here, Hermione, quickly. The - the Dark Lord will be here soon." Another jolt struck Hermione as her slow brain realised  _he_  had just called her by her first name for the first time as well. It made her angry, somehow, and with wand now in hand she was brave enough to show it.

"Not  _Mudblood_ , then?" She lifted her chin defiantly and indicated the sluggishly bleeding word where it was cut into the skin of her chest, and again on one arm and on her stomach. It was as though she had struck him - his cheeks flushed hot red and he reared back, stumbling to his feet. His shoulders hunched like they had when she had been begging him for help earlier, like an indicator of his shame. He ignored her comment.

"Get out of here, Granger, and take Potty and the Weasel before my father and  _darling_  Aunt Bella kill them." Hermione spared a glance for Harry and Ron, both still holding their own, if only barely. How in the hell was she supposed to help? She staggered upright and stood swaying, facing Draco.

"Why?" she asked and his jaw went tight, the muscles spasming.

"I -" he started to speak and broke off as with a pop Bill and Fleur Weasley apparated into the room holding Dobby's hands, their wands spitting sparking curses as soon as they appeared.

" _Why_?" Hermione demanded again, only thinking clear enough to know that if Draco would save  _her,_  the girl he used to love to torment, maybe there was hope for him yet. Maybe she could convince him to...

"I'm not a damned monster, Hermione.  _Granger_. If I leave, if I don't do what I'm told, my family and I get tortured or killed. I'm doing what I have to do to survive."

"How fucking  _noble_ ," she spat and was disappointed when he didn't react to her attempt to goad him.

"He's going to torture me for the failure to capture you. What dear Aunt Bella did to you will be a fucking drop in the ocean compared to my lot later on. So don't you  _dare_  lecture me about noble!" His voice cracked and his lip trembled, and Hermione could see tears of fear shimmering silver in his eyes. Draco wasn't lying; he really did expect to be tortured for helping her. And that didn't change a damn thing in Hermione's mind.

"Good," she snarled in a most un-Hermione-like manner, rage consuming her. "Think of me while you're screaming, and how if I was there, I wouldn't fucking help you.  _Stupefy!_ " The last word was yelled and Draco went tumbling backwards, wand skittering out of his hand as his head met marble floor. Hermione didn't spare him another glance, turning and running for the others, where the battle raged on. She skidded to a halt by Bill Weasley, pointed her wand at Bellatrix, and yelled: " _Crucio!_ " Venom saturated her voice, and the insane witch couldn't block it in time. Bellatrix crumpled, writhing, and Lucius was distracted for a moment - forced to use defensive magic instead of curses. He threw up a Shivering Shield charm with a snarl.

"Quickly!" Dobby cried and held out his hands to the five witches and wizards. They dashed to him quickly, Harry lagging behind, shooting curses at Malfoy Senior as he backed towards the house elf.

"Come on, Harry!" Bill urged as Hermione laid her hand on Dobby's back. House elf magic didn't operate by the same rules as human magic, and apparently one benefit was that Dobby could apparate past the Malfoy's wards, taking humans out too, using side-along apparition. Her eyes met Ron's as they all jostled together and she saw horror and empathy written over Ron's face. It was awkward, too intimate, and Hermione dropped her eyes and her cruciatus curse sputtered to a halt. Just as Harry reached Dobby, Bella scrambled to a crouch and pulled something glinting silver from her clothing. A laugh erupted from her twisted mouth as she threw the silver blade toward them.

Hermione flinched, and then the world twisted and nausea gripped her as Dobby disapparated.

* * *

Hermione hit the sandy ground hard and tumbled to her knees ungracefully, the wrenching feeling behind her bellybutton fading. She was on all fours, and her tears dripped on the backs of her hands and on the ground, her whole body trembling. She could hear Harry calling Dobby's name, fear and anguish in his voice, but she couldn't focus on it, the world slipping into chaos. Was she safe? Were they away? Her wounds stung and her mind felt utterly shattered from the events of the past few hours. Only a few hours? It must have been.  _God._

"Hermione?" Ron's familiar voice was a balm on her nerves as he lifted her to her feet, wrapping his arm around her waist to keep her upright. His arm dug into the cuts on her lower ribs, but the feel and smell of him was like home, and Hermione leant her head against his side, sighing softly.

"Merlin, 'ermione! What deed zey do to you?" Fleur's French tones buzzed over her in a worried wave. "Ron, Ron we must get her eenside. Come."

"Can you walk?" Ron leant his head down to hers, speaking into Hermione's tangled mane, breath warm on her scalp and ear.

"Y-yes." She found some remaining strength somewhere and lifted her head, looking around. "Oh..." The exclamation wisped from her softly, and her tears started anew as the first thing her eyes fell upon was Harry walking towards them with bowed head, Dobby cradled in his arms. The house elf's head lolled limply, and Hermione knew he was dead. She bit her tongue and tasted blood; Bellatrix had taken a victim after all, and that made Hermione furious. Ron tried to guide Hermione away from the grassy edge of the beach but Hermione resisted his tugs as Harry drew closer. "I'm so sorry, Harry." He met her eyes and nodded once jerkily.

"Thanks. I'm sorry too." A rough whisper and misery in his green eyes. "I want to bury him. Not with magic. Do you have a shovel around?" Harry asked Fleur and Bill, and Bill nodded, leading Harry away into the grey of the nearing dawn.

"'Ermione, pleeze, come eenside and let me feex your wounds." And so Hermione followed the Beauxbaton's witch painfully up the long winding pathway to a little cottage overlooking the sea, leaning heavy on Ron. Her brain was crammed to overflowing with the vivid memories of what had happened since they had been captured and her mind kept wandering away on her. She was rather certain she was suffering from shock.

She felt her jeans rubbing damp on her upper thighs and blushed, mortified and simultaneously amazed that she had the energy to care about something as minor as wetting her pants. Her knee hurt like buggery - she must've twisted it somehow - and she was panting with exhaustion and pain by the time they reached the top of the low gently sloping hill Bill and Fleur's house sat atop. There was a little white picket fence around the house, and the gate that Fleur swung open had a little copper plaque that read 'Shell Cottage'.

"Hermione."  _Luna_  appeared in the open doorway of Shell Cottage in a pair of brown overalls, hair in two plaits, her mouth dropped open with concern. "Ron, Fleur." Luna looked them over as they traipsed in past her, Ron jerking his head in acknowledgment and mumbling hello. "Where are Bill and Harry and Dobby? Are they alright?" Lina's tone was almost as dreamy as always, and lacked most of the urgency most people would express; a faint pursing of her lips and worry in her eyes the only overt signs of her fear for the others.

"Dobby's dead," Ron answered her abruptly as he led Hermione through to the room Fleur waved him towards. "Harry and Bill are fine. Harry's burying Dobby. Come on, 'Mione, let's get you on the bed."

Ron sounded stronger lately, Hermione thought dazedly, clinging to him like an anchor in a storm. He had changed since he'd come back to them and destroyed the locket. It was as though something fundamental had been altered within him. He'd grown up. It made Hermione feel like she didn't have to do all the thinking herself, which was ever so useful in a situation like this, where she was too fragile and hurting to be the organised, together one.

As if in a dream Hermione lay down on the bed and heard Luna murmur that she was going to go and keep Harry company. She thought that was nice of the girl. Merlin, she was tired, and still so sore from the  _cruciatus_  curses she had suffered through. Her mind spun like a top.

"Ron, perhaps you should go. We need privacy for zees."

"I'll be just outside, 'Mione." A warm, large hand squeezed Hermione's and she squeezed it back, eyes shut. The door closed with a creak and a soft thunk, and Hermione sighed, opening her eyes and looking up at Fleur. The beautiful witch was staring down at Hermione's wounds with sympathy, and Hermione thought that loving Bill was good for Fleur. She looked softer, easier in her skin somehow.

" _Accio_  Essence of Dittany," Fleur called and a bottle zapped off a shelf, flying into Fleur's hand. "Zey are not so bad, your injuries." A wand movement over Hermione's body accompanied by a stream of muttered words, and Fleur nodded as the magical scan confirmed her judgement. "Eet looks as zo all but zees, ah, injuries on your arm and chest were done wees a blade. Zose ones were done wees magic, and ze scarring weel not be eliminated wees dittany. A medi-witch would be able to feex it, per'aps but I cannot." Fleur dabbed the dittany over Hermione's other wounds as she spoke, the injuries slowly disappearing to nothing but healing pink skin as she worked. "I am so sorry, 'ermione."

Hermione felt dazed and numb. So, Bellatrix had marked her, had she? She couldn't seem to summon the energy to care. "Thank you, Fleur," she whispered hoarsely, and shut her eyes, letting the Beauxbaton's witch tend to her wounds in silence.

* * *

Hermione sat on the stairs and worried, head propped up in her hands as she stared at the front door. It had been nearly two months since Hermione and the others had arrived on Bill and Fleur's doorstep, bloodied, battered and carrying their dead. Griphook, Merlin damn him, had absconded with the sword three days after they had arrived there. God knew how he'd managed to escape, body as broken as it had been, but either way he was gone, and with him the only hope of destroying the other horcruxes - including Helga Hufflepuff's cup.

After that loss, things had kind of...stagnated. There was no way of getting successfully in and out of Gringotts without Griphook's help, and without the sword they couldn't destroy the cup anyway. All stealing the cup would do was alert you-know-who to the fact that they were actively seeking out his horcruxes. So they had done what they had called 'regrouping', but what was really just  _stagnating_  in Hermione's opinion.

She, Harry and Ron had joined back up with the Order of the Phoenix and now the war against you-know-who was fought with guerrilla tactics and far too much spying and sneaking about for Hermione's frayed nerves to take. Hogwarts had fallen a month ago, and lives had been lost...god, so many lives. Children and teachers alike had been cut down by the Death Eaters, led by Voldemort himself and backed from within the castle by Snape, damn him. The Order had managed to get a lot of people out to safety through a tunnel from the Room of Requirement that ended in Aberforth Dumbledore's pub. That had saved a lot of lives, but it still hadn't been enough. She rubbed a hand over her eyes and sighed, lips pressed tight as she held back tears.

And so Hermione sat, worrying and waiting on the stairs of Harry's babyhood home in Godric's Hollow. You-know-who would never think to look for them  _here_ , of all places. The Order had cast a web of spells and charms over the building, and from the outside it appeared the same to wizarding eyes - a tumbling down ruin. In reality, the old damage and the disrepair had been fixed, and the size of the house magically enhanced, to accommodate some of the many witches and wizards now working with the Order.

They were well organised, Hermione had to admit, and a lot of that was thanks to Harry, who had found a ruthless streak within himself that kept them all together. He might not have the knowledge or skill to run the Order by himself, but with the use of judicious delegation to older and wiser witches and wizards, Harry made a fine figurehead for people to rally under. He was more than just  _Harry_ , now he truly was the Boy Who Lived. He hated it, of course. Hermione smiled and jiggled her feet on the carpeted stair unconsciously; a nervous tick.

Harry, Ron and Mr Weasley were out getting food supplies - they went through a lot of food these days - and the safest place to get them was through Muggle means. So they apparated to a nearby town and apparated back onto the doorstep with bagfuls of groceries. Hermione would have gone with them, but since that day at the Malfoy Manor...

She shut her eyes and buried her face in her knees, trying not to remember, stopping herself with no little effort from indulging the perverted urge to pull up her sleeve and look at the crude letters carved into her skin.

She didn't like going out anymore.

 


	2. 1. Empty in the Valley of Your Heart

_The harvest left no food for you to eat_

_You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see_

_But I have seen the same_

_I know the shame in your defeat_

_[The Cave, Mumford & Sons]_

* * *

"Hermione? 'Mione, wake up."

 _Hermione shook her head, fighting against the magical bindings that pinned her helpless like a bug to the floor of the Malfoys' Manor. She screamed as Bellatrix_ crucioed _her, again and again, but it didn't help. It didn't stop it from hurting; it didn't bring anyone running to save her. Oh god she couldn't take this agony. She wanted to die. Bellatrix loomed over her; face twisted with sick pleasure as she drew her silver blade and pierced Hermione's skin with the point. Hermione whimpered and shivered and sobbed, a snivelling mudblood messing on the Malfoys' pristine damned floor._

_"Please, Draco. Help me!" She begged, "Please... Kill me!" Tears streamed down her face, runny snot coating the skin above her upper lip, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she begged Draco Malfoy to end it all for her. To make it stop. "Please..." Hermione forced out again, eyes opening and pleading with him and Draco just looked at her with a horrified shrinking expression, and she choked and sobbed and hated him._

" _Hhhh_!" Hermione's eyes snapped open and she dragged in a long breath, body jerking bolt upright and a clunk resounded and sharp pain blossomed in her forehead, lights flaring behind her eyes.

"Ow!" a male voice complained - Ron - and Hermione echoed his pained yelp, her hand going to her forehead and clutching it gingerly.

"Ron?" Hermione fell back against her pillow, blinking dazedly. God that had bloody well  _hurt_. Ron's head felt astonishingly hard. She looked up at him and could only see a disembodied head in the dark. Dark? She had just gone up to her room to have a lie down before dinner, and now it was dark? She must have fallen asleep, she realised belatedly. Hermione's face was wet with tears and her head ached, her nose running a little bit. She wiped it with her sleeve and let out a shaky sigh. It had just been a dream.

"I heard you shrieking. Like a bloody banshee." Ron explained his presence in Hermione's tiny bedroom uncomfortably. "I thought that, um, you must have been having a nightmare..."

"I was."

"Do, um..." Ron looked highly discomfited, hand rubbing the bump he was no doubt developing on his forehead as he rushed out with a reluctant: "Do you want to talk about it?" Hermione felt a laugh bubble inside at Ron's soothing Ron-ness.

"No, not really," she said calmly as tears streaked slow paths down her face, staring up from her pillow at Ron's pale face - floating above her bed in the faint moonlight seeping through the curtains. He nodded with visible relief.

"Ah. Okay then. I guess I'll just go -" He waved in the general direction of the bedroom door, backing away from the bed, and Hermione smiled to herself at his awkwardness. "- Back to  _my_ bed," he continued. "Night 'Mione."

"Goodnight, Ron. And - thank you." Ron jerked his head in a 'no problem' motion and grinned, teeth white in the moonlight. The door clicked shut behind him and Hermione let out a shaky sigh, wiping her sticky-damp cheeks with the backs of her wrists.

Almost every night she dreamed about some muddled version of true events. Sometimes it was much, much worse than reality, and sometimes it was much, much better. But most nights, like tonight, it was just a slightly jumbled version of reality. Hermione stayed up late and barely slept these days - sometimes going several days without sleep. Not that anyone noticed; things were so busy here at Godric's Hollow, and sleep schedules were all over the place. But try as she might to avoid sleep, eventually on days like today the lack would catch up with her and she would drop off unawares.

And then the nightmares came, with screams of ' _crucio_ ' and flashing silver knives, cowardly grey eyes always present - watching her torture and humiliation with impotent fear.

* * *

There was a loud banging at the door and Ron leapt to his feet. "I'll get it!" he babbled nervously and hurried out of the dining room into the foyer like a startled rabbit. Hermione heard Fred swear from the lounge, and from her vantage point at the table could see him hurrying toward the front door. They usually went to the door in pairs lately...just in case.

Hermione gazed toward the foyer with anxious eyes, heartbeat picking up. It was unlikely the Death Eaters would find them without someone informing on the Order, so when someone was out on a mission - with the possibility of getting captured and tortured into talking - every time someone knocked at the door the occupants of the house froze. Usually Order members apparated directly into the foyer; there was no real reason to come to the door.

"Ron, you know we aren't supposed to answer the door alone when people are out on missions, you git," Hermione could hear Fred say, and Ron protested indistinctly. Everyone waited with bated breath as Fred called through the door. "Password?"

No Muggles could even see the house, and to any wizard or witch it should appear as the abandoned ruin it had been. It was no longer either. There were enough magical barriers up to hide an army from you-know-who's own sight, but like the others, Hermione could never convince herself to relax when someone approached the house when there were no returns scheduled.

"Mischief managed."

Hermione's straining ears just picked up Remus Lupin's embarrassed voice through the door. It was his code that he was himself and not being coerced, if he had to approach the house from the outside for some reason. Fred and George had picked all the passwords - god knew why they had been allowed that job - and Remus seemed to hate it. The twins had a betting pool going as to how long it would take Remus to break and demand a new password.

At the sound of Remus' voice, sounding hale and hearty, Hermione's death-grip on her book eased a little. She shot a relieved look at Harry, who smiled, his expression mirroring her relief. "He sounds okay," she said, remembering the day almost exactly a month ago when an Auror had gone out to spy on the Malfoy Manor, and apparated back with his chest flayed open thanks to an ambush and a very nasty spell. A few wizards and witches that Hermione hadn't known so well simply went out and...just never returned.

"I've got two prisoners," Remus called through the door. "One is conscious but wandless and cooperative, and the other under the  _Imperius_ , wandless and docile."

Hermione's spine snapped straight and her fingers dug into the book again. She shot a glance at Harry who was already on his feet and hurrying toward the front door, wand at the ready. Hermione hesitated for a long second and then stood up and followed him, pulling out her own wand. Mrs Weasley, George and Kingsley were doing the same, pouring into the foyer from the lounge that sat opposite the dining room. Kingsley, George and Harry took up defensive positions in the middle of the foyer, Hermione and Mrs Weasley watching from the archways either side of the small foyer. Hermione's fingers were slippery with sweat on her wand and her heart pounded, and Mrs Weasley smiled reassuringly at her.

Fred cracked the door open and peered out, only his head and wand stuck out the narrow opening and then nodded, opened the door the rest of the way.

"Well, if it isn't the fucking ferret," Ron snarled and Hermione's chest constricted as Draco Malfoy stepped into the house. Panic rushed over her and her head went blank; she couldn't seem to get a breath, lungs screaming for air but nothing happening. She swayed and staggered back, dropping her wand with a small clatter as she  _remembered_. She saw Malfoy and everything just  _rushed_  back. Hermione could hear Bellatrix screaming ' _Crucio!'_  and mocking her, see Malfoy standing near her magically bound body with frightened, cowardly eyes, doing nothing - felt again the overwhelming terror and despair she had experienced.

"Hermione, my  _dear_." Mrs Weasley's voice broke into Hermione's memory-looping mind and her arms were warm around Hermione's shoulders as she gently embraced her. Her motherly hands rubbed Hermione's back as she pulled Hermione out of the foyer, back into the dining room - away from Malfoy. It took a while for the panic attack to pass and Hermione's mind to focus once more. When she finally looked up with clear eyes she was sitting at the table again, her wand on the tabletop, Mrs Weasley crouched by her side.

"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs Weasley fretted. "What happened?"

"Just a - a panic attack." Hermione managed, tongue feeling thick in her mouth, "I'm fine. Honestly." She looked around and from where she sat, she could see into the lounge. Could see Draco Malfoy sitting on the couch with his skinny shoulders slumped, his mouth moving as he spoke to Harry, who stood before him with his wand out and face cold and hard. Hermione had to fight not to let the panic take her over again at the sight of Malfoy, and she fixed her mind on her breathing and her eyes on the floor.

"Here." Mrs Weasley pressed a mug into her hands and Hermione sipped at it without looking, gasping as firewhiskey burnt down her throat. She  _must_  have been in a bad way if Molly Weasley was pushing alcohol upon her. She smiled her watery thanks and took another sip, and the alcohol steadied her nerves a little. "Are you sure you're fine, Hermione dear?"

"I'll be okay, thank you, Mrs Weasley. It was just a...shock."

"It was indeed." Mrs Weasley's eyes were on what was happening in the lounge, and Hermione could sense the older woman wanted to be in there - to hear what was going on.

"You can go..." Hermione waved a hand at the tense tableau in the lounge. "I'll just sit here a moment longer."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, please. I'm fine, really."

"Just call me if you need me, then, dear." Mrs Weasley patted Hermione's knee and hurried off into the room opposite.

Hermione watched - she didn't want to look at Malfoy but she made herself do it. She wasn't going to let his presence control her like this. She couldn't afford to fall apart if she saw someone who had been  _there_. That was the sort of thing that could get her and the people around her killed if it happened during a battle. Hermione steeled herself and told herself she was tougher than this, and she almost believed it.

Malfoy was talking to Harry still - answering questions it looked like, but Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying. The couch he was sitting on afforded her a not-quite profile view of him, mostly seeing the back of his head, the corner of his mouth moving as he spoke, the end of his sharp nose, his left hand gesticulating apathetically ever so often. Hate and fear trickled through Hermione's veins in equal quantities. But she didn't panic again.

She kept sipping automatically at the firewhiskey and watching the interrogation. After a while Harry nodded abruptly and came toward Hermione, running his hands through his mussed thatch of hair. He sat down opposite her at the table.

"Are you okay, 'Mione?" His green eyes were brimming with worry and his mouth was taut and strained with tension. She nodded.

"I'm all right now." She flashed a glance at the lounge and Draco Malfoy's hunched figure. "What's going on, Harry?"

"Malfoy wants to surrender to us in exchange for our protection," Harry bit out sharply and Hermione's eyes widened.

"You're  _joking_."

"Afraid not."

" _Why_?" Hermione's forehead furrowed as she tried to figure it out and couldn't. Harry sighed heavily and rested his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

"Do you want the long story or the short one?"

"Short. You can give me the details later," she said and added quietly: "If I want to hear them."

Harry sighed again and explained. "Apparently Malfoy refused to fall in line with you-know-who's orders." In response to Hermione's questioning look, he added: "He wouldn't kill anyone,  _apparently_. Anyway, you-know-who started…" - Harry winced noticeably, unconsciously clenching and unclenching a fist - " _Punishing_  Malfoy for his disobedience, but Malfoy still wouldn't kill anyone. In the end, Lucius disowned him, and then you-know-who threatened to kill Narcissa if Malfoy didn't do what he was told.

"But the way Malfoy tells it; he truly can't face the thought of killing anyone.  _Apparently_. So he took his mother and ran for it. He made it to Grimmauld Place, which is where Remus found him hanging about with his mother - whom incidentally he'd had to  _Imperius_ because she wouldn't leave willingly without Lucius. And anyway, now he's here, begging for refuge, and I don't know what the hell to do." Harry sighed once more and scrubbed his hands through his messy hair again, meeting Hermione's eyes. "I don't know whether we can believe him, 'Mione. I don't know what to  _do_."

Hermione wanted to say so many things.

_Kill him._

_Throw him out._

_Kill his mother while he watches._

_Torture him then kill him._

_Torture his mother._

Make him  _suffer_.

She took a deep breath and looked into Harry's green eyes, smudged beneath with dark shadows from the constant strain and fear they were all under. It was the worst for him - he was their de facto leader now, in most things, under Remus and Kingsley's careful supervision. He carried so much of the burden. She wanted him to be able to be happy. She bit her lip and thought about whether Malfoy should be trusted. She started to speak and then stopped. Tried again and stuttered to a halt.

It meant thinking about  _that_ , and memories flashed through Hermione's mind again and she felt sick and trembly. Harry, bless him, noticed and stifled his obvious impatience, waiting quietly for her to find the words. "At - at the Malfoys' Manor when..." Hermione shook her head and laid a hand flat on the table to steady herself as her remembered terror kicked back into gear. It wasn't a full-blown panic attack, but it was still awful and she felt like vomiting.

"Hermione." Harry's voice was warm and worried and  _real_. "Hermione, it's okay. You're here, with me. You're safe."

"Sorry, Harry," she managed after a moment, smiling weakly at her concerned friend. She continued, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "When you got out of the dungeon and all the fighting started... Malfoy could have killed me, or apparated away with me - that's what he was supposed to do. But instead he...he let me go and gave me my wand back."

"So you think we  _can_  trust him?" Harry extrapolated from her revelation and Hermione nodded.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but -"

"It's fine. You didn't have any reason to tell me before now." His bright eyes were soft with empathy and Hermione realised for the millionth time just how lucky she was to have a friend like Harry. He understood her without needing it explained to him. She hadn't talked to anyone about what had happened to her, and so far none of the others had ever asked about it, thank god. Hermione suspected their lack of prying had more to do with the wizarding world being bereft of any knowledge of psychology though, rather than being out of respect for her wish for privacy. Hermione was grateful for it anyway, although she did have the niggling feeling that Muggles were probably right about it being important to talk out your experiences. She just wasn't ready to do that yet.

"Thank you, Harry."

"No problem." Harry scratched behind his ear and looked uncomfortably off into the thin air at his right; sensitivity quota for the day probably all used up. The air was filled with things that Hermione wanted to leave unsaid, and the emotional tension was suffocating. "So, you think he's telling the truth, then? We can trust that he's not going to try to stab us in the back?" Harry returned to the business at hand and Hermione nodded, glad of the distraction.

"I think he's genuine. I mean, we should treat him like a prisoner, just in case. But I don't  _think_  it would be a trick, and if it's  _not_  and he really needs our help...it would be wrong to turn him away," she said reluctantly.

"You're a better person than I am, Hermione. If it was me, I'd want to curse him, not shelter him." Hermione laughed shortly and without humour, the sound harsh and overloud, and she saw Malfoy's head twist around toward them. She looked quickly away and then breathed in deeply, forcing herself to be calm. She  _wouldn't_  let him panic her. She refused to be frightened of him. The bastard.

"Oh I  _want_ to curse him. But I won't." She looked back over at him, his head turned away again, blonde hair looking dirty and shoulders hunched up around his ears. He seemed frightened and it gave Hermione strength seeing him so defeated and afraid. She smiled ever so slightly as an idea suddenly occurred to her. "Can  _I_  be the one to tell him?" she burst out and Harry just looked at her for a long second, most likely evaluating her emotional state.

"I suppose... If you think you can cope, Hermione. But  _why_?" He ducked his head and flashed her an embarrassed look. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me..." Hermione didn't have a problem telling him though - a sense of deep satisfaction at the irony of her and Malfoy's switched positions had given her the strength she needed to talk about it.

"When... _Well_. He wouldn't do anything. He wouldn't speak for me, he wouldn't stop them, and he wouldn't..." Hermione didn't want to say how she'd begged Malfoy to kill her. She forced a tiny smile to her lips. "And now he's the one who needs my help - well, ours, but you know what I mean -" Harry nodded " - and I'm going to do what he didn't. The right thing." Her smile turned vicious, she knew it did - it felt cold and tight on her face. "I hope it  _burns_  him." Harry blinked nervously. She wasn't usually like this. She gave Harry a genuine if fragile smile. "Sorry. I know that sounds awful but -"

"No, it sounds completely understandable." Hermione got to her feet, draining the last few trickles of firewhiskey and shivering as it slid down her throat.

"Shall we?" she asked Harry and he nodded tightly.

"You're  _sure_  you'll be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Harry. I promise," Hermione assured him, striding confidently through to the lounge. At least, she hoped she looked confident - she still felt shaky, and her heart was still racing. But she was determined. She marched around the end of the couch and stood in front of Draco Malfoy, who looked up at her with wide eyes. She could see a glint of fear and it gave her a feeling of power that she knew was wrong, but revelled in anyway. Surely that too would be understandable. "Malfoy."

"H - Granger," he answered her in a fearful mumble. It was completely unlike how he had sounded at school, the arrogant git, but an amplification of the fear and uncertainty that had threaded through his voice at the Manor when... Hermione cut those thoughts off. She didn't need to start remembering now. She examined him with sharp eyes, trying to make her face cold and blank, arms crossed over her chest. Harry hovered behind her, ready to give support or take over if she needed it. She appreciated the thought, but she wouldn't need any help. She  _would_  keep it together. She  _would_.

Malfoy was still hunched over, an expensive wool coat thrown around his skinny, broad shoulders, his arms hidden - wrapped around his middle, it seemed. The grey silk shirt he wore was stained with blood and grime, just like the coat and trousers, and even his hair. His face was even thinner than it had been last time she'd seen him, his eyes deeply shadowed and his gaunt cheeks making sharp, unflattering angles in his already pointed face. He looked like a wreck, and Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly, enjoying the sight.

"Having a good perv, Granger?" Malfoy snarled with a hint of his old arrogant snark, and Hermione curled her lip in disgust, her response coming without thought.

"If I  _were_  ever going to 'perv' at you Malfoy, it certainly wouldn't be now. Have you  _seen_  yourself?" He actually flinched and huddled further in on himself as Hermione's retort hit the mark, and she wasn't sure if she should feel triumphant or guilty. He looked so pathetic, like he was trying to shrink himself down, a crumpled heap on the couch.

"Hah, you tell 'im, 'Mione," Ron crowed and Hermione bit her lip as Malfoy cringed even more. She was supposed to be being the magnanimous good guy here, not taunting him.

"So I guess  _you're_  going to tell me whatever it is you've decided to do with me and mother," Malfoy said in a dull voice. "That seems fair, I suppose. Considering..." He met Hermione's eyes and she held his gaze without flinching, and he broke the stare first. "Considering what I did. Or didn't do. I'm sorry, Granger." He glanced up at her again. "Regardless of what you decide to do with me and...and mother. I'm truly sorry."

Hermione felt her heart gallop like it was trying to burst right out of her chest, and it started getting hard to breathe again. Her fists clenched at her sides. How  _dare_  he apologise to her. "I'm sure feeling sorry helps salve your conscience, Malfoy, but it doesn't change what happened to me. It doesn't fix that. So I'd rather you kept your  _sorries_ to yourself." She fell silent when Harry's fingertips brushed her upper arm, a reminder to stay calm. Hermione smiled shakily over her shoulder at Harry and then just stared at Malfoy for a moment, trying to figure out how best to tell him he could stay in their custody.

Part of her really didn't want to say it. Part of her - a big part despite how much she wanted to be the person who always did the  _right_  thing wanted to tell Malfoy to get out. Why should  _she_  want to keep him safe from you-know-who? But before she could say anything, Malfoy looked up at her with desperate eyes.

"Please, Granger, whatever you do...can you keep my mother safe? She - she isn't bad. She was born into this, brought up to believe in pureblood superiority...and then she married father, and believed whatever he did because  _Merlin_  she loves him so much, and, and...she's never hurt anyone, honestly. She doesn't deserve to die." The words tumbled out of him and he sounded like a frightened little boy, and Hermione believed everything he said. She didn't want to, but she did.  _So_ , he obviously valued one thing in the world besides his own skin. That was something, at least. "Do what you want with me, I deserve it for..." He trailed off as their eyes glued together, and a look of repulsively intimate knowledge passed between them. Malfoy was the only person in this room, in this  _house_  who knew what had happened to Hermione, in every awful detail. That connected them, and it  _sickened_  her.

"You can stay," she said numbly, her fancy little speech flying out of her head. Malfoy blinked at her and cocked his head to the side.

"What?"

"You can stay. You and your precious, bloody mother," Hermione repeated herself, fury and complete emotional collapse warring with each other inside her. At this point fury was winning, the galling sensation of  _helping_  Malfoy making her want to throw things, scream, have a full blown tantrum like she used to when she was only very small.

"We...can...? Thank you," he said slowly and quietly. "Thank you. I owe you a debt I can never repay."

"I don't want you owing me anything. You still disgust me. And you won't be honoured guests; in case you're getting confused, you're our  _prisoners_." Hermione stumbled out the words, trying to distance herself from the terrible, pathetic gratitude on Malfoy's face. She didn't want to feel sorry for him. She wanted to be angry. Anger was safer.

"Y-yes. Of course," he stammered then paused and a shadow of the old, arrogant, Malfoy showed in his tone. "I wouldn't  _dream_  of presuming otherwise." Hermione ignored that and turned toward Harry.

"Where will we put them?"

"We'll put Malfoy in the cellar, I suppose," he said after a moment's thought, and then turned to Kingsley. "Could you make sure it's secure?"

"Yes. Of course." Kingsley nodded and swiftly exited the room, and a moment later Hermione could hear the trapdoor in the kitchen open and his muffled steps down the steep, narrow stairs.

"Where's my mother?" Malfoy asked, still with a hint of pomposity in his tone and Hermione looked to Harry again, not knowing where Narcissa was.

"She's safe," Harry said. "You can see her once you've proved you won't try anything.  _Maybe_." Hermione signalled her approval of the tactic at Harry with a raised eyebrow and nod, and Harry nodded back. It really  _was_  a good idea. Harry was getting clever in his decision-making lately. Taking on more of a leadership role seemed to suit him, really. He had grown so much in the past few months. At any rate, keeping Malfoy and his mother apart would give them a hold over Malfoy; help them keep him in line.

"You promise she's safe?" The arrogance had left Malfoy's tone again, as he began to process, Hermione supposed, the reality of just how much at their mercy he was. Good. She hoped it bloody well  _tormented_ him to be so helpless.

"I promise," Harry replied shortly.

"Thank you," Malfoy said simply and Hermione wondered if Malfoy had been so polite throughout his entire life combined as he had just this evening. She stared at him coldly, still not showing a hint of outward emotion he could use against her. It was five long minutes of staring at Malfoy while he stared mostly at the floor before Kingsley reappeared.

"It's done. He won't be getting out of there anytime soon."

"Good," Hermione said, still in charge of the situation, it seemed. Later on she would have to thank Harry for trusting her to do this. "Come on, Malfoy. Move it." She glared at him and he struggled to his feet, looming over her.

Looming...over...

 _Oh_.

A wash of thoughtless panic, images, impression -  _memories_  - consumed Hermione. Malfoy had loomed over Hermione's helpless body and she had been terrified; scared he was going to kidnap her or kill her or...take advantage of her. She blinked, coming back to the present. He hadn't kidnapped her, hadn't killed her, hadn't...hadn't raped her. He'd let her go.

Disoriented and still panicky Hermione took a staggering step back with her eyes fixed to Malfoy's grey ones. She tripped on the edge of a rug and started to wobble over backwards, and like it was happening in slow motion Malfoy stepped forward and reached out to grab her. An automatic instinct? Whatever it was, his right arm came out from beneath his coat and reached out to grab her and the blood drained from Hermione's face and she bit back a scream as she  _saw_.

Despite Malfoy's automatic attempt to stop her from falling, Hermione tumbled hard onto her bum on the floor and stared with eyes as round as saucers up at him.


	3. 2. Weep For Yourself

_You'll never settle any of your scores_

_Your grace is wasted in your face,_

_Your boldness stands alone among the wreck_

_Now learn from your mother or else spend your days_

_Biting your own neck_

_[Little Lion Man, Mumford & Sons]_

* * *

"Your..." Hermione said in a strangled voice, stomach rebelling on her as she stared at Malfoy's arm. At where his hand should have been, at the end of his arm.  _Should have been._ Oh god. He'd reached out to grab her but been unable, because... "Your  _hand_. Oh my god, Malfoy, your  _hand_."

It was gone. There was nothing but a neat stump that ended just above where his wrist bones should have been. She choked on her shock. While there was nothing offensive about the stump itself, the  _wrongness_  of seeing nothing where there should have been  _hand_  - the shock of it...god... Hermione felt complete emotional collapse win its ongoing battle with fury, and tears sprang to her eyes. She couldn't identify any of what she was feeling, except for a definite sensation of complete and utter horrified shock.

"But you...it..." She pointed stupidly at the stump and Malfoy bit his lip and shot her an angry, humiliated expression, tucking the foreshortened arm back under his coat and swallowing hard. Harry helped Hermione to her feet but her eyes didn't leave Malfoy's face. She had this awful fear that... "What - what  _happened_?" Malfoy was silent - not defiantly so, though. Hermione thought he looked like he wanted to sink into the ground; such was the extent of his humiliation. She paused and licked her lips, waving Harry off.

"What happened, Malfoy?" Her tone was hard, brooking no argument. She needed to know. Malfoy looked down at his arm hidden within the folds of his coat, his self-disgust clear on his face and Hermione couldn't help wondering how she would feel if she'd just lost a limb. Would she despise the loss? Think it looked ugly? Feel mutilated and look at it in self-disgust? She thought she probably would, but of course she couldn't truly imagine it.

"Don't worry, Granger. It wasn't because of you," he muttered sullenly, still staring down at his arm, the stump tucked away out of sight. Relief flooded Hermione, and she felt like a terrible person for feeling it. She felt sick as she thought about how she'd been wishing something bad would happen to Malfoy. That he would suffer. And now it had and he was, and she just felt  _sorry_  for him. "The Dark Lord only took a couple of fingers for my letting you go; I lost my hand later on," Malfoy continued in a dull, far away voice, and Hermione recognised it. He was remembering. She felt ill.

" _Fingers_?" Because of her. Malfoy lost his fingers because he helped her. Did that mean it was wrong of her to still hate him, alongside the pity that pulled at her insides? Hermione felt lost, dazed.

"Mm. My little finger and my ring finger." Malfoy stared at Hermione now, and it was like they were the only two people in the room, the air crackling with tension. "He tortured me for a while - it's how I got this, incidentally, and a few others that you can't see." He pointed with his left hand to a well-healed long scar so close to his hairline down the right side of his face that Hermione hadn't noticed it earlier. "And then, at the climax of his little torture session with me..." Malfoy's voice wavered and his whole body shook. "He tore off my fingers and fed them to Nagini."

"Oh god... Dra -" Hermione's hands clamped over her mouth to shut herself up before she said his name or threw up, and she let out a choked sob instead, tears starting to leak from her eyes and stomach lurching with revulsion. Harry stepped forward and roughly grabbed Malfoy's arm shaking him a little.

"That's e-bloody- _nough_ , Malfoy." Harry jerked his head at Ron. "Take Hermione upstairs, Ron. I'll take Malfoy from here, 'Mione. You all right?" Hermione, her hands still clamped to her mouth and tears pouring over her cheeks now as the floodgates of her emotions gave way, just nodded. It was all too much. She was past it. Her frayed nerves had snapped and now she couldn't seem to stop herself from crying - and in front of Malfoy, damn him. He watched her with curious, slightly amused grey eyes, no doubt enjoying seeing her like this.

Ron put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, murmuring bolstering words to her, and she tried to focus on him, but she couldn't help watching Malfoy, as Harry took him away. He threw a look over his shoulder back at her, grey eyes glittering with a conflicting mix of gratitude and resentment. Hermione wondered if he noticed the mingled pity and hate in  _her_ eyes. She wiped her wet face and gasped in a juddering breath, letting Ron lead her after Malfoy and Harry, towards the stairs and her cosy bedroom.

Hermione couldn't help stopping at the base of the stairs, watching Harry indicate the open trapdoor and saw consternation cross Malfoy's gaunt features. The stairs to the cellar, Hermione knew were steep, narrow, and rickety, without any sort of handrail to aid descent. She wondered with perverse curiosity if Malfoy would be able to get down them okay, and didn't know what she hoped for. Ron tugged at her. "Come on, 'Mione."

"Yeah..." she replied absently but didn't move, one hand wrapped around the doorframe into the dining room, still staring with wet brown eyes at Malfoy as he shrugged his coat reluctantly off his shoulders and began laying it over his handless arm. It looked so  _strange_ , so  _jarring_ , his sleeve rolled up so that the scarred stump poked out. It was neat but red, and maybe swollen a little, and Hermione wondered how long ago it had happened. Whether he maybe needed a Healer's attentions. Wondered briefly how it had happened - magic or ordinary means.

Malfoy's words rang in her head;  _he tore off my fingers_ , and she thought  _that_  was because of me.  _That_  was my fault. The hand might not have been, but his fingers... She felt ill again. Hermione might despise Malfoy, but she wouldn't wish  _that_  on her worst enemy. She might have at one point - she had, in fact, and now she was ashamed of doing so - but that had been before she had seen the horrible reality. Malfoy looked up and saw her there, blatantly staring, and too late she whipped her head back with a gasp, but not before seeing the embarrassment -  _embarrassment? Why? His arm? Why did he care if Hermione saw it?_  - on his face.

"Hermione." Ron prodded her impatiently and she exhaled shortly.

" _Wait_ , Ron," she whispered equally impatiently. When she poked her head back around a second later Malfoy was descending into the cellar, only his upper body visible and his foreshortened limb mostly covered by his thick coat folded over it, his descent awkward as though he hadn't had long to adjust to the loss.

"'Mione what  _are_  you doing?"

" _Nothing_ , Ron, just  _shh_."

"His arm looks bloody  _weird_ , doesn't it?" Ron whispered, still not  _shutting up_  and Hermione groaned to herself. Her eyes pinned to Malfoy's head blankly now as he disappeared out of view, his last words to her running through her head over and over. Not angry or spiteful, but brimming with remembered pain and fear - grief. And maybe a little resentment, but could Hermione really blame him? She remembered the way he had shaken like a leaf as he had spoken.

Voldemort... _tore them off_...and then Nagini...ate them...

"I think I'm going to be sick -" Hermione gasped, and then proceeded do exactly that, sending her half-digested dinner all over the floor and poor Ron's slippers.

"Oh  _Merlin's balls_!" Ron swore and Hermione gulped down the sensation of more coming up, clamping one hand over her mouth and the other over her stomach. Her eyes screwed shut and watered, mouth salivating and stomach roiling.  _Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up_ , she told herself vehemently, and after a moment the feeling gradually began to subside. She opened her eyes and looked at Ron, who had lifted a slippered foot and was scrutinizing the vomit splattered on it with horrified disgust. Pulling out her wand she murmured  _aguamenti_ and rinsed her mouth with a stream of water from her wand.

A faint noise sounded from the dining room and Hermione looked around the doorframe and through the archway, seeing that Malfoy and Harry were both gone. Harry must have shut the trapdoor behind him, because the floor was once more flat and even, only the square outline of the door showing it was ever there. Ron was making noises of disgust and Hermione sighed with embarrassment and annoyance. " _Evanesco_. Sorry, Ron," she said apologetically.

"Thanks. No problem. I guess." His nose crinkled up as he examined his now clean slippers, and then his eyes flashed to hers, telegraphing worried confusion clearly. "What was  _that_  about?"

Hermione licked her lips and headed up the stairs, pulling a battered Muggle pack of gum out of her jeans pocket and chewing on a stick gratefully. Minty freshness obliterated the lingering vomit-y taste in her mouth. She didn't know what to say to Ron, and she still kept hearing Malfoy's words and imagining how it must have happened. How awful it must have been for him.  _Just like it was for me_ , the thought popped into Hermione's head and she sniffed wetly. She was still crying, damnit, leaking like a broken tap. "It looks so awful," she said over her shoulder at Ron as she crested the stairs. That didn't reveal too much about how she felt, but it was still true. Hermione didn't want to have to go into her feelings in great depth - there was no point - but she didn't want to lie to Ron either.

"It is kind of gross," Ron agreed and Hermione let out a sobbing laugh of annoyance.

"That's not what I meant, Ron. I meant it...it looks strange, yes, but I meant..." She pushed the door to her room open and snatched a tissue from the box on her dresser, slumping down on the side of her bed and wiping her nose. "Oh, god." Hermione buried her face in her hands and started crying in earnest now. About everything. Everyone who had died. Her parents in Australia. Her torture at the Malfoy's. The nightmares that made sleeping a repeat of the torture. She was so  _tired_ these days, always so tired. She cried about Malfoy's fingers, torn off because he did what little he dared to help her. And it still hadn't been enough for her. She still hated him and she thought she had every damn right to. But his  _hand_.

God, it wasn't right, no matter how much Hermione despised him. And Hermione couldn't help feeling like it was her fault, somehow - not just the fingers but the hand. Maybe if Malfoy hadn't helped Hermione, you-know-who would never have started punishing Malfoy by taking his...his...body parts. She gulped down tears and snot as her stomach revolted again and tried to breathe deeply. Ron was standing nervously by her door, watching Hermione cry with wide, worried eyes. "You 'right, 'Mione?" he asked hesitantly as her crying began to ease.

"Uh huh." She nodded, sitting on the edge of her bed and sniffling snottily, wiping her nose with an already saturated tissue. She pulled the crumpled ball away from her face and stared at it in frustration as it smeared more than it absorbed. Ron snagged the tissue box from her small bookshelf and handed it to her. "Thanks," she mumbled nasally, plucking out a fresh tissue and blowing her nose loudly.

"It's not your fault, you know," Ron said conversationally, settling on the bed next to her. She leaned against him, pressing their sides together and he wrapped a comforting arm around her waist, her head nestling comfortably on his shoulder.

"What?" She knew what Ron was referring to, but she wanted to hear him say it aloud. Like a weird way of punishing herself; forcing her to picture it, to think about it.

"Malfoy's hand - his fingers, I mean." Ron squeezed Hermione and said surprisingly wisely - "He chose to be a Death Eater. If he hadn't been, then he wouldn't have lost his fingers,  _or_  his hand. Bloody hell, 'Mione, there were dozens of choices he could have made over the past few years that would have meant he didn't lose his hand. It's not your fault." He paused and added, sounding more like typical  _Ron_ : "Besides, it's  _Malfoy_. If anyone deserved to lose a bloody hand, it's him."

"Ron!" Hermione gasped, shocked.

"He let them torture you, Hermione! I'm not going to feel sorry for the git!" Hermione conceded the point with a half-choked sobbing laugh.

"But it's just so...he's only our age. It's..."

"Evil? Yeah, well, that's what you have to expect when you work for a dark wizard," Ron shrugged, and nudged Hermione and she smiled despite everything. Sometimes Ron was a pain in the arse, but sometimes...sometimes he was just what she needed to cheer her up.

"It makes it all so real, somehow. I know people have been hurt and killed before now, but to see  _Malfoy_  like that... It's...jarring," she confided. Hermione so badly wanted to just  _hate_  Malfoy for what had happened at Malfoy Manor, but now she had started feeling sorry for him too. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't she just hate him? Why did he have to get injured and seem so  _human_?

She sat in comfortable silence with Ron for a while, soaking up his body warmth and his comfort. Things were so much better now they had both moved on. Ron as a friend was far nicer than Ron as a crush. He rubbed her back and rested his cheek on top of her head, and she burrowed her face against his shoulder and wrapped an arm around his waist. It as was intimate any embrace could be, and yet it didn't feel awkward anymore. A rapping knock came at the door and Hermione heaved a deep breath and cleared her throat. "Come in," she called and Harry poked his tousled head into the tiny room.

"Feeling better?" He crossed the room in three steps and sat on the other side of Hermione. She nodded and gave him a shaky smile, small but present.

"Yeah. A little." She saw Harry look across at Ron as though he didn't trust Hermione to tell him the truth, and felt Ron's short nod of confirmation. It should have annoyed Hermione, and usually it would have triggered a lecture, but tonight it just made her feel safe. Cared for. Sitting between her two boys. Hermione smiled again and this time it wasn't shaky, but unthinkingly happy. "He's in the cellar then?" she asked at last.

"Locked up tight. He won't be getting out of there any time soon. Not that he has anywhere to go, even if he could," Harry said casually, hand moving to rub little soothing circles between Hermione's shoulder blades.

"Where's Narcissa?"

"In Remus and Tonks' room, in an induced sleep. She needs someone supervising her while she's asleep, and even with all the magical extensions we don't have enough rooms. I think we'll keep her asleep most of the time for the first few days, except for eating and the like." Harry took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Once Malfoy's proven he won't cause any trouble, perhaps we can put her down in the cellar with him. Let  _him_  keep her under control." Hermione nodded but couldn't think of anything to say. She nodded again, head feeling heavy and leaden as exhaustion crept up on her.

"Ron, we need to talk," Harry said, and Hermione - still with her head resting on Ron's shoulder - saw Harry indicate her door with a flick of his hand. She blinked, sitting up straight and pulled strands of hair off her cheek where they had stuck, the air feeling strangely cold compared with the warmth of Ron's shoulder.

"You aren't going to sneak off and talk about the war without me, are you?" Hermione asked sharply and Harry's abashed look answered her question.

"You're tired and it's been a long evening... I didn't want to stress you," Harry said and Hermione glared at him. She didn't like being left out of plans regarding the war. So she might not go out on patrols or missions, but she could still be helpful in the planning stages. And she didn't like the way they tried to hide things from her, like she was fragile and too much stress might break her. If Hermione had been going to break, she would have done so under Bellatrix's wand. Had she? She wasn't sure. Bleary-eyed she frowned at the two boys - almost men now, really.

"If there's war planning to be done, I'm going to damn well be in on it," she snapped and the boys shared a nervous glance. They knew not to argue with Hermione when she swore. A 'bloody' usually equalled intense frustration, a 'damn' extreme feelings on a subject, and if Hermione said 'fuck' or any permutations thereof, Ron and Harry knew to duck for cover. Although the filthy-mouthed people she lived with were beginning to rub off on her, to be fair.

"Fine. It can wait 'til tomorrow then. You need sleep," Harry insisted and Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

"You aren't going to just go and have the meeting behind my back once I'm asleep are you?"

"I swear, Hermione," Harry promised with half-amused frustration at her stubbornness. "We'll wait until tomorrow. It's not urgent."

"Right. Right then." Hermione nodded and her jaw cracked with an enormous yawn, eyes flicking to the small square magical clock atop her bookshelf. "11:07 AND ALL'S WELL" its rectangular face read in glittering red letters and she snorted to herself. Stupid thing. It had been a Christmas present from Ron a couple of years ago, a cheap little trinket that Hermione suspected he had grabbed in a last minute panic. She had kept it though, because it had been a gift. "I guess I'll see you in the morning." Ron gave her a last squeeze before getting up and sloping over to the door, and Harry smiled at her, patted her hand.

"Night, Hermione."

"Night Harry, night Ron," Hermione answered and when they had left she flopped back on her bed and heaved an enormous sigh. It was going to be more than strange, having Malfoy around. Hermione guessed they couldn't keep him locked up in the dank cellar forever, not if he proved trustworthy. So that probably meant having him around the house, eventually. She would have to see him every single day. She would have to eat meals with him and spend long evenings listening to the wireless with him in the room.

She stared up at the plain white ceiling above her, twirling her wand lazily back and forth between her hands and picturing the days and nights that lay ahead. Things were stressful enough without Malfoy hanging around. There were so many ways in which Malfoy's presence could screw things up, the most likely being he and Ron attempting to actually murder each other. But there was also the fact that seeing him brought back her memories of the torture; not to mention the hot flush of guilt and pity mingled with anger that he seemed to evoke in her. Hermione didn't like it at all. Feeling like she  _wanted_  to hate him but instead...feeling sorry for him.

It made her miserable and muddled, and whenever she thought about his amputated hand, empathy made her stomach twist unpleasantly. Hermione groaned aloud and rolled onto her stomach on her bed, burying her face in her pillows. This was awful. It couldn't get any worse.


	4. 3. It Comes Around

_Remind me of a memory_

_Bleed it 'til it runs dry_

_But if it feels like this then it's probably wrong_

_It's true_

_I don't know what comes now_

_I can't hear it but I know the sound_

_Everyone is blind just the same as you_

_Well, you see it when it comes around_

_[Time Bomb, Delta Spirit]_

* * *

Draco didn't bothering turning around to watch as Potter thundered back up the cellar steps. Potter had seemed particularly self-satisfied, having finished entertaining Draco with a lecture on the importance of good behaviour that had dragged on and on for a good ten minutes at least.

"If you try anything,  _anything_  at all, you will be out of here faster than you can blink, Malfoy," Potter had finished, with an attempt at intimidation that had failed miserably. Draco had experienced enough pain and terror in his life now that Potter couldn't frighten him with a few angry words. If Draco hadn't been exhausted, in pain, half-starved and admittedly fearful of losing this tenuous safety, he would have laughed at Potter's sanctimonious speech. But he  _was_  all those things, and so he just stood there with his right arm tucked against his body protectively and listened to the cellar door thud shut behind Potter.

He was left alone; locked up tight in a filthy rat hole. Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that it was better than being in the Dark Lord's hands. He couldn't repress a shiver of sick fear at the mere thought. A dim orb of bluish light lit the long, low-ceilinged space he stood within, and Draco surveyed his self-inflicted prison with dull eyes. Nothing but dirt and four walls, as far as he could tell. He scoffed bitterly. The Order fancied themselves to be so good, so righteous, and they couldn't even provide him with a bed? Not even a blanket, or pile of rags? Even the Dark Lord had blankets - of a sort - in some of his dungeon cells. Although Draco thought perhaps he'd rather have no blanket and no torture, than the other way around. The torture was a bit of a deal-breaker, in his experience.

He looked around for a likely place to sit, but it all looked the same. In the end he was simply too tired to stand any longer and stumbled to a corner of the cellar, slumping back against the junction of the two walls and sliding slowly down. It was cold on the dirt, a draught whisking along the ground and chilling him further and Draco shivered, awkwardly pulling his coat around him and huddling up to conserve body heat.

And now there was nothing for Draco to do but sit and think. Sit and stew in his weak emotions - fear and uncertainty and resentment. He swallowed and winced; his throat was parched but in looking around he couldn't see any sort of drink available. No one seemed to have thought to provide the  _prisoner_  with water. He  _could_  have given them the benefit of the doubt and assumed that due to the unexpected nature of his arrival they hadn't thought of such things, but instead he just swore bitterly and his resentment and impotent anger grew.

Draco was just Death Eater scum to them; why would they care? Except that  _wasn't_  who he was - he had never been just that. There had been...extenuating circumstances, that had given him no choice but to do as his father wanted. All Draco's life, all he had ever done was what his father wanted of him. Nobody crossed Lucius Malfoy - not even his own son. Draco hadn't  _thought_  his father would treat Draco's disobedience with violence, but a small voice inside him had always told him not to test that theory. Of course, now his theory had been tested, and he knew exactly what his father would do in reaction to Draco's disobedience, didn't he? He swallowed again and his eyes scanned the cellar for something he might have missed.

His eyes lit on a bucket down the other end of the cellar. A bucket? Haughty indignation flared up automatically - how dared they treat a Malfoy like this? What did they think he was - an animal to be fed from a trough? And then the indignation died down to a low smoulder as Draco remembered exactly why they dared. He was nothing now - since Lucius had disowned him he wasn't a Malfoy any more. He was a nothing. A snivelling maimed nothing that had torn his mother away from her husband and thrown her and himself on the mercy of the Order of the Phoenix.

Draco rubbed his left and only hand across his face tiredly and told himself to never forget exactly what he was. It hurt too much when he forgot everything that had happened to him and thought of himself as a Malfoy, as a promising young Death Eater, only to remember he was no long either of those things. He told himself he had to be smart, to face reality, no matter how much it stung him. His pride would be the undoing of him, and yet Draco wanted to cling to the shreds of it - it and his mother were all he had left. He struggled to his feet.

"Water is water," he mumbled to himself, and crossed the long expanse of floor with dragging, tired steps. But when he got to the bucket, Draco could see it was empty. No cold, refreshing water. Just an empty bucket, and something white catching the light behind it...? He bent down and picked up the white thing, and it was soft in his hands. Muggle brand toilet paper? He recognised it from his recent few days on the run - using filthy Muggle public toilets. Draco blinked and stared back at the empty bucket, tired grey eyes eloquent with contempt.

"Oh, you have got to be fucking  _kidding_  me." He swore and with a spasm of anger threw the roll of toilet paper against the wall as hard as he could, kicked the bucket and sent it flying to join the toilet paper with a violent clatter. He had thought the Order would be  _different_. He had let himself  _hope_. To expect better treatment of prisoners from the Order than the Dark Lord tended toward. But this - a bucket in the fucking corner - was hardly any better at all. At least the Order had thought to supply toilet paper, her thought bitterly.

"Fuck.  _Fuck_.  _Fuck!_ " he hissed in frustration and anger, dragging his fingers viciously through his hair. It was as unkempt and greasy as Snape's, and he hated the feel of it.

Merlin, was this what Draco's life was going to consist of? Sleeping on the floor in a bloody cellar, using a bucket for a loo, and having to thank the Order for the  _privilege_? He thought the Order wouldn't do that, he thought they were supposed to be  _different_. For a brief moment Draco wondered if staying out of the Dark Lord's hands was worth it if he only found such similar indignities. Maybe he and his mother could find refuge elsewhere. Flee the country. Hide. And then Draco thought of how the Dark Lord had threatened to disfigure and then kill his mother. He couldn't risk it. He needed the Order's protection. And as humiliating as this was, it was still better than... Draco steered his thoughts away from  _that_ , trying to forget everything except his anger.

" _Fuck_ ," he half-sobbed and retrieved the bucket and toilet paper, setting them both neatly back where he'd found them. It took longer than it would have before he had lost his hand. Everything did. He kept going to use it, and then remembering it wasn't there anymore, and a choked feeling would clog in his throat, his eyes would prickle with tears he would never shed in front of anyone else.

He had cried when the Dark Lord had ordered his hand to be amputated, cried like a weakling and they had all laughed at him, mocked him. After that he had never cried again, no matter  _what_  they had done. He had saved his tears until he had been in his bedroom, trying to heal his injuries with a wand he had stolen from the body of a mudblood the Dark Lord had kept strung up in the dining room. And when he had been locked up in the filthy cells beneath his family home, he had held back his tears until he was alone - his screams he couldn't control, but whether or not he cried? That, he had still been able to control, and so he had.

He sat down by the bucket and wiped away the tears that had started trickling down his cheeks with the memories. Once his bloody brain began remembering, it wouldn't stop. He tried to clear his thoughts, to calm his strained emotions, and eventually succeeded in making his mind go blessedly blank, knees drawn up to his chest and forehead resting on them. His stump made him excruciatingly aware of its presence with a tearing, burning pain that never really went away, and his missing hand seared with ghostly pain, as though his body hadn't realised the damn thing was gone yet.

Draco could never feel simply peaceful anymore; he was no longer allowed that, his every moment strung through with hurt. It filled him with utter despair that things could ever get better, and the only thing that kept Draco breathing from one second to the next in this hell was his mother. Keeping her safe. Convincing her that he had done the right thing in taking her away from his father. That he had just been trying to protect her.

He fell into a restless doze, and in his dreams Draco felt her cool, gentle hands stroking his hair off his forehead, her soft voice whispering comfort. In his dream he was clean and his hair shiny and smelling of hair potion. He was dressed in perfectly pressed and tailored clothes, and he lay on a chaise lounge in his bedroom suite, a light rug over him. His mother sat gracefully on a high-backed chair to his left, smiling down at him. Draco was  _home_ , in the Manor, and the Dark Lord and all his followers were  _gone_ ; the sanctity of his home restored to him.

Gone?

Had they ever been here?

Draco tried to think but his mind seemed clouded over.

"I - am I sick mother?" he asked her, confused as to why he was at home with her tending to him when he should be at Hogwarts. Draco's voice sounded thin and distant to his ears and he frowned, puzzled.

"Hush, Draco. You've been a little ill, that's all. Don't you remember?" Narcissa smiled at him and drew the rug up a bit further, fussing over him with quiet content, and her face shone with motherly love. Draco smiled in return. It was nice to see her happy. For so long she had been worn and strained, nerves worn to a fraying thread...hadn't she? He couldn't seem to remember anything at all.

"But you're better now, Draco. You're going to be just fine," Narcissa continued and her hand fell from his forehead to his right shoulder, patting it softly.

Draco frowned; he still couldn't recall being sick. But that didn't matter now. He was at home, with his mother - the details didn't matter, weren't important. He brushed his confusion away like cobwebs. This illness he'd apparently had must have given him memory loss, he decided blithely. "I love you very much, Draco. You know that, don't you?" Narcissa asked him, her words more demonstrative than usual. Draco nodded, flushing with the embarrassment of most teenage boys when their mother's expressed their love.

"I know, mother," Draco mumbled and reached out to pat her hand with awkward affection. Pain  _raged_  to life in his stump and he woke with a hoarse scream, biting his lip as tears streamed from his eyes at the shocking agony. The dream was torn from him and he sat panting from the pain in the bleakness of reality.

" _Fuck!_ " Draco bit out with tears dripping from his pointed chin as he hugged his arm carefully to himself and rocked back and forth, trying not to scream again in case the sound could be heard upstairs. He whimpered quietly instead, a litany of swear words spilling raggedly from his lips. His mouth tasted of blood and he realised he must have bitten his lip so hard he'd broken the skin. He couldn't feel the wound; the pain from his stump obliterated everything else. It was only when the pain began to subside to a manageable level that he figured out what had happened. He must have reached out in his sleep, thinking he was reaching out to his mother - Merlin how fucking  _weak_ , how  _pathetic_  - and instead his stump had hit the bloody  _bucket_. Draco snorted with half-hysterical laughter as his fragile emotions crumbled in the face of his pain and dashed, dreaming hopes.

"The bucket. The damned  _bucket_ ," he muttered disbelievingly, and shook his head, still clutching his maimed arm carefully to his chest, tears leaking from his eyes as he chuckled hoarsely. It all seemed just so bitterly, desperately hilarious. It was like the world was out to get him. Finally feeling some paltry happiness - if only in a dream - only to injure himself on the bucket the Order expected him to  _shit_  in. Draco's laughter sputtered into nothingness, pained and humourless smile fading from his lips.

He wanted to die.

* * *

Draco must have fallen asleep again, and slept for quite some time from the feel of his stiff, aching muscles. He didn't remember any dreams, and he was glad for  _that_  at least. It had been the sound of the trapdoor falling shut that had woken him, and when he squinted with bleary eyes toward the door, he saw something sitting at the top of the stairs.

"Oh Merlin, please let it be water," he whispered with dry, cracking lips, struggling one-handed to his feet. He didn't even need to piss, he was that dehydrated. Any longer, and he was going to have to stifle what little pride he had left and bang on the cellar door until someone heard him; beg for the precious liquid if he had to. Part of Draco still wished he was dead, wanted to just  _die_ , but most of him still felt that instinct of self-preservation. That stupid, unfounded hope that perhaps - perhaps - things might get better.

The coat fell from his shoulders as he stood and he tripped on it, almost falling over, and stood frozen with terror as he realised if he had fallen he would have automatically put out his right arm to try and save himself. Everything he did, it was all tainted by this injury and the pain and disability it created. Draco had been conditioned to always fear the possibility of pain, the fear hovering in the back of his mind constantly. Would he be cursed just for someone's casual fun? Beaten the way Muggles hurt each other, with fists and feet? Knock his stump on something and set off a blossom of white-hot pain? Be flayed or burnt or spat upon? So many ways to hurt and humiliate him...

The Dark Lord and his followers had turned Draco into someone who cowered and shivered like a beaten house elf at the mere possibility of pain, because he had come to expect that pain was inevitable. There was no avoiding it, no running from it, no preventing it from happening. For a month - or maybe a little more than that - Draco's life had been pure, violating  _pain_.  _I_ didn't _fall. I_ didn't _hurt myself. I'm fine. Stop being so weak. Stop being such a fucking_ coward _!_

Draco scooped up his coat in his cold-stiffened left hand and slipped it around his shoulders again - afraid to put his right arm through the sleeve in case it hurt. Actually, he knew it would hurt, he just didn't know how  _much_. And he didn't care to find out. Draco's mouth was so dry - no saliva to even wet his lips with, and his head pounded blindingly with a dehydration-induced headache that a simple potion could have fixed. But he had no potions. No wand. Nothing.

Draco stumbled halfway up the cellar steps and fell heavily on his left hand and his chest, remembering at the last second to stick his right arm out to the side, thank Merlin, the fall painfully jarring. He let his cheek rest where it had landed on the edge of a rough wooden step and closed his eyes, just breathing. He went the rest of the way up the stairs bent over, with his hand always touching the stairs to balance himself. He didn't want to risk falling again. Draco wanted to cry at the new indignity forced upon him, and tried to just be glad there was no one there to see him like this.

The objects left on the stairs had been an enormous bowl of muesli and a tall glass of orange juice on a tray, and a three litre container of what the printed Muggle label said was  _Evans' 100% Pure Mineral Water_. Draco unscrewed the fiddly Muggle lid and sniffed the clear liquid inside. It smelt like water, which was to say, nothing. He tried a little bit, and the trickle ran over his tongue and down his parched throat like cool bliss.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed and smiled, and gulped down more. It was so  _good_. He made himself stop before he'd drunk too much; he didn't want to make himself sick with it, and he should probably ration it in case he didn't get any more for a while. Merlin only knew what the Order were planning to do with him - if the standard of his dwellings were any indication of their attitude toward him, they very well might not bother feeding him every day.  _Bastards_.

Draco sat awkwardly on the stairs and started on the bowl of muesli. It too tasted disproportionately delicious; Draco had not only been thirsty, he had been so hungry nearly anything would have tasted good. He told himself that he would only eat half of it, and save the rest for later, just in case. That didn't work out the way he planned - he'd wolfed the bloody lot down before he could stop himself. He drank all the orange juice and left the empty plate and glass on the stairs where he had found them, clambering back down with the bottle of water.

Draco was just wondering where to sit - "Oh I have so many choices. That patch of dirt over there? Or maybe that corner there? Or that... Oh  _fucking bloody hell!_ " - when his sarcastic monologue was cut off abruptly as he realised he needed to use the bucket. He glared at the ceiling of the cellar a few inches above his head. "I don't fucking  _care_  if you're protecting me and mother from the Dark Lord," he muttered vehemently, cheeks burning with humiliation that he should have gotten past long, long ago. "I bloody  _despise_  you all."

* * *

The day passed slowly with no way to keep track of the time and nothing to do to entertain himself, and as he sat huddled back in a corner at the other end of the room from the bucket Draco found himself thinking of the one person he had tried not to think about. Know-it-all goody-good Hermione fucking Granger.

The horrified expression on her face when she had thought Draco had lost his hand because of her had been oddly gratifying. Part of that sense of gratification, however, had not been pleasure in making her feel awful, but the fact that she had cared. Someone had cared about Draco, cared about what had happened to him. No one had done that in a long time, not even his mother.

For a moment, Draco had been grateful to Granger for giving a fuck about him. He had, of course, quashed the feeling quickly. But how fucking far had Draco fallen, that he, a Malfoy, a pureblood, had been grateful for Granger's sympathy, even for a second? He had recovered his distance from her by telling her about how he had lost his fingers, trying to enjoy the hurt and guilt in her eyes. It hadn't been as satisfying as he'd thought it would be. He couldn't take pleasure in hurting people now. He had seen too much suffering caused to others - had experienced it himself - and now, beneath his pale attempts to act like his old self, Draco mostly just felt tired, sick of it all.

Draco had told her what had happened, voice betraying his feelings, and she had begun to say his name. Not Malfoy, but Draco. Draco - what she had said when Aunt Bella had been torturing her. The name she had cried when she had begged him to help her, to kill her. The memory was burnt into his brain and it made him feel sick to his stomach. Standing there pretending to be undisturbed by the suffering Aunt Bella was putting Granger through and failing miserably.  _Wanting_  to enjoy the torture. He remembered  _wanting_  to enjoy it at first, and now that he had experienced what Hermione had been through and worse, he wondered how he could have ever been so stupid, so thoughtlessly cruel.

But that desire to take pleasure in the torture had vanished when Aunt Bellatrix had encourage Draco to rape Hermione. The way she had implied it, just so casually...like Draco would be pleased by the offer. As though he would thank Aunt Bella and then happily violate the girl he had known at school in front of his family. He hadn't been able to understand why Aunt Bella would think he would want to  _do_  something like that. Something so  _vile_...something...something Draco knew for a fact that his own father took part in.

Everything had fallen apart right then. Draco's world had shattered in an instant as something clicked in his head and Draco had seen - really seen - what he was a part of. It wasn't a pretty picture. Suddenly, Draco hadn't wanted to enjoy Hermione's torture anymore. Instead he had wanted to run away, wanted to wash in scalding hot water and try to cleanse himself of the stains that he knew would never come off. He had wanted to free Hermione, to curse Aunt Bella and give her a taste of her own fucking medicine...but he had been too cowardly to do any of that.

He hadn't wanted to lose everything that came along with being a Death Eater. He hadn't wanted to lose his mother and father, his status in the wizarding community - his whole life, everything he knew and everything he had ever known. At least, he tried to tell himself, sitting in the Order's cellar and shaking from the cold that had seeped into his very bones, at least he had let her go.

It had been that day in his home with Granger that things had all fallen apart for him. It had been Hermione Granger who had torn his world to pieces, and Draco didn't know if he should thank her or kill her for it. Now he truly realised how  _wrong_  he had been, how  _evil_  the Dark Lord's cause was, Draco suspected he should thank her. But that would never happen, because even though a part of Draco was  _glad_  he had realised how wrong he had been, a larger part resented her for taking his world away from him.

It had been a world where he had believed in blood purity and wizard superiority over Muggles, where he had seen his father as a great if frightening hero, and the Dark Lord had been a leader for a true cause. Granger had tainted that world, so that Draco could never be happy being a Death Eater, could never salve his conscience over evil deeds done, never stand by and just watch another person get tortured without  _hating_  himself. She had taken his life and his home from him, and even though Draco knew it wasn't her fault, he hated her for it.

He had inflicted harm on Muggles and mudbloods before the day he had seen Hermione tortured - never tortured them to the extent his Aunt Bella had them, but he had  _hurt_  them. Made them suffer and writhe before him. He had felt power rushing through him as they begged for him to stop, and he had fed on that perverse sense of power.  _Relished_  it.  _Revelled_  in it.

He dragged his thoughts away from what he had been like  _before_ , his mind returning to last night. Returning to the moment when he had told Granger of Nagini's  _snack_. How she had cried his name, just like...and then clamped her hands over her mouth and let out a sob like her heart was breaking for him. Granger should have hated him, she shouldn't have cared - and yet she did. She had felt guilt. And Merlin  _damn_  her, she had felt  _pity_. That had stung, and to distance himself from that pity, Draco had automatically pretended to be pleased by her hurt; he was excellent at assuming masks, the practice essential around the other Death Eaters.

One show of weakness and they would tear you apart, so that constantly, no matter what you might be feeling, you had to appear perfectly in control. Strong. So, he had assumed an expression of casual callous amusement and watched the hurt in her eyes grow and twist into confused guilt and hate, his heart sitting in his chest like a stone. Merlin, he was so  _sick_  of his life. Draco buried his head against his knees and distracted himself with thoughts of more prosaic things. He listed his complaints in his mind. He wished like hell that the dirt floor wasn't quite so hard; his arse was half numb, and where it wasn't numb it was sore. He felt like there wasn't a single part of him that didn't ache. He was hungry again. His body's ghostly memory of fingers burnt and itched like mad. But of course, Draco couldn't scratch what wasn't there.

He lifted his head and stared at the stump numbly, grey eyes clouded and hopeless. He still found it hard to believe that...that his hand was never going to be there again. This, this injury - it was for life. No matter what happened to him, no matter if things miraculously turned out good for him, Draco would still spend his life as a fucking cripple. He swore and grasped at the thin air where his hand should be in a vain attempt to relieve the phantom itch, but there was no relief and unshed tears and dull anger fogged his vision. He shut his eyes and buried his head back against his knees, trying not to think.


	5. 4. Dead Man Walking

 

_I'm a dead man walking here_

_But that's the least of all my fears_

_Ooh, underneath the water_

_It's not Alabama clay_

_That gives my trembling hands away_

_Please forgive me father_

_[Barton Hollow, The Civil Wars]_

* * *

Hermione's eyes kept going to the shape of the trapdoor in the floor while she waited for Ginny to figure out what the rune Hermione had sketched meant. It was disconcerting, knowing that Draco was sitting down there in the dim, dank cellar - had been, for the past three days now, and Hermione, thankfully, hadn't seen him. But despite telling herself she was glad she'd had nothing to do with him, her eyes kept going to the trapdoor, and she kept finding herself wondering if he was all right. It was disconcerting and irritating, and she heaved a sigh, turning her attention back to Ginny. "So this one means...?" Hermione prompted patiently.

"Oh,  _I_  don't bloody know!" Ginny threw her quill down and folded her arms, leaning back in her chair with a long-suffering scowl.

"Language, Ginevra!" Mrs Weasley reprimanded from the kitchen that adjoined the dining room, where she orchestrated the preparation of the evening meal, wand in hand. Tonight it was roast chicken, potatoes, carrots and beetroot with onion gravy, and the scent of roasted chicken was wafting thick and delicious through the air. Hermione's stomach growled at her.

"Sorry, mum." Ginny frowned at the textbook in front of her. "I hate runes. Stupid bl- stupid subject," the younger girl corrected herself before she swore again and risked her mother's wrath, and Hermione smiled faintly.

"I suppose we can take a break. It's nearly tea time anyway." Ginny was not placated by a mere break.

"I don't see why I have to study at all! It's not like any of these -" she waved a hand at the battered textbooks strewn over the table "- Will be useful if I get attacked. Or caught."

"Ginny!" Mrs Weasley's voice scalded the air.

"I know, mum. I will not be attacked. I will not be caught.  _Because_ , I will not stir a step outside this house if I know what's good for me," Ginny called back the obviously oft-repeated words in a weary monotone and grinned at Hermione, mouthing, ' _mothers_ ,' silently and rolling her eyes with frustrated affection.

"The war will be over one day, and it will make things easier for you if you've finished your schooling," Hermione answered responsibly, although she made sure to grin back at Ginny. "Not that I'm much of a teacher..."

"Well you're  _miles_  better than Professor Binns," Ginny replied affably and Hermione snorted.

"A  _turnip_  would make a better teacher than  _Professor Binns_."

"Well you're not a turnip at any rate." Ginny laid her quill aside and snapped her textbook shut.

"Oh good, you're finished." Mrs Weasley bustled over with a plate in her hands, face flushed and hair coming loose in fluffy tendrils around her face. "Ginny dear, could you take Draco's dinner down to him? And Hermione, would you mind very much setting the table for me?" She shoved the heaping plate of roast dinner into Ginny's hands.

"Merlin's beard, mum, he's not a giant."

"He's too skinny," Mrs Weasley answered, wiping her hands on a tea towel and hurrying back into the kitchen. "He needs feeding up."

"He's a prisoner, mum!" Ginny protested, but Mrs Weasley was gone, clattering busily away in the kitchen. Hermione finished stacking the textbooks on the side table in two neat piles and smirked at Ginny.

"Sometimes I wonder if your mother would insist on feeding you-know-who up with comfort food if she got the chance." Ginny grimaced and laughed.

"I don't think she'd go quite  _that_ far. I  _hope_ not, at least." Hermione let the tablecloth flutter down over the table and then whipped out her wand and with a few words and a flick of her wand, the china cabinet open and a stream of placemats and cutlery came dancing out. When they had all settled gently down on the long table Hermione looked across and saw Ginny still hovering by the trapdoor. Ginny's face was a study in sullen reluctance, and she was glaring at the trapdoor as though she was trying to set the occupant alight with her mind. Hermione bit her lip. She knew how Ginny felt, and yet seeing the loathing on Ginny's face made her - yet again - feel a little sorry for Malfoy.

"Hermione..." Ginny whinged, shooting hopeful, pleading eyes at the older witch and Hermione felt herself tense slightly.

"What?" she asked, even though she knew what Ginny wanted her to do.

"Could you take this down to the ferret? Please? If I see him I'm going to hex him, I know it. Arrogant, nasty, evil -" Ginny's voice dropped to a whisper and she peered in the direction of the kitchen and her mother. " _Bastard_."

Hermione cringed inwardly, and she had to remind herself that Ginny had only gotten a very vague and slightly untruthful outline of Hermione, Ron and Harry's imprisonment at the Malfoy's. Mrs Weasley hadn't wanted Ginny to know what had happened, and Hermione hadn't been eager to tell. So Ginny had no idea that, for Hermione, seeing Malfoy made the memories flood back, made her skin crawl with all sorts of conflicting and horrible emotions that Hermione would rather pretend didn't exist. Hermione swallowed hard and tried to pull herself back together before she started shaking or crying, noticing Ginny's curious, uncomprehending eyes on her.

"Are you okay, Hermione?"

"I don't like him either, you know."

"Please...?" Ginny put on her sweetest, most hopeful face and Hermione let out a long-suffering sigh, and found herself agreeing without even consciously deciding to.

"All right then, Ginny. I'll do it." Hermione took the plate from Ginny and cast a  _Lumos_  in case it was too dark down there - she didn't want to take a spill down the steps - balancing the plate in one hand and clutching her wand tightly in the other.

As she did so, she found herself wondering  _why_  she always did this sort of thing. If someone asked her to help, it was like she couldn't stop herself from jumping in to fix the problem. Which was normally fine and great, and ended up with Hermione feeling good about herself and the problem, whatever it might be, solved...although admittedly sometimes it just seemed to irritate people... But Hermione didn't think it was going to end with her feeling helpful and good about herself this time. Right now she just felt sick with nerves. And was babbling in her head. She grimaced. Ginny opened up the trapdoor and gave Hermione a grateful smile.

"You're a lifesaver, Hermione. I owe you one."

"Yes, you do," Hermione muttered under her breath too low for Ginny to hear as she managed a faint echo of Ginny's bright smile, and began descending slowly down the cellar steps. She told herself that this was a  _good_  thing. She couldn't avoid Malfoy forever; she had to - what was the word? Desensitise, that was it - she had to desensitise herself to having him around her. She couldn't freeze up and feel panicky every time he was in the same room as her. And there was no time like the present.

"Hah," she said sarcastically in a low voice. "How about never?" That would certainly be preferable.

But she clenched her jaw with stubborn determination, and marched the rest of the way down the steps as quickly as she could without slipping and tumbling down to the bottom. The cellar was dim, a single orb of light floating in the middle of the low ceiling and casting a faint bluish light. Hermione stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked around, her heart racing unsteadily in her chest and her breath coming shallow and quick.

"Malfoy?" she asked and got no answer, and her pulse ratcheted up another notch. She told herself that he hadn't tried anything since he'd turned himself over to the Order, and he wouldn't be stupid enough to do so now. But that didn't help her feelings of panic when the trapdoor closed with a thunk and Hermione whirled around to stare up at the closed door with panicked eyes, nearly tipping Malfoy's dinner off the plate.

"Calm  _down_ ," she told herself firmly in the musty silence.

"Talking to yourself now, Granger?" Malfoy's voice cut through the air and Hermione shrieked breathily before she could stop herself, jumping half out of her skin. She stared around the room, gasping and shaking and furious with him for frightening her. And then she saw him. Malfoy was slumped in one corner of the long, low cellar on the packed dirt floor, knees up and his left arm wrapped around them, the other, maimed, arm tucked between his knees and his body. Malfoy's coat was around his shoulders and yet he looked cold, face paler than usual and still too thin, the arm that hugged his knees trembling a little. Whether his shaking was from the cold or something else, Hermione couldn't tell. His clothes were still filthy - no one had even bothered to cast an  _evanesco_ , it seemed, let alone let him use the bathroom.

Hermione bit her lip in consternation. There was no bedding of any sort that she could see in the dim blue light, no table and chair to eat at, and as she looked around she saw a bucket down the other end of the cellar and blushed hotly.  _No_ , she thought desperately,  _that couldn't be for... Oh my god_. This was how the Order imprisoned people who willingly surrendered? The heat from Hermione's embarrassed blush was channelled into the same hot anger at any injustice or unfairness that had fuelled her to form SPEW back at school.

"I - uh - I have dinner." She held out the plate stupidly, too shocked and furious to bite back at Malfoy's snark, and he blinked his grey eyes in dull confusion.

"I can see that," Malfoy said and Hermione could tell he was trying to be an arse, but he only sounded tired; his voice thin and shaky as he huddled within his coat.

"Do you want it or not?" she snapped and felt bad as soon as the words left her mouth.  _Way to kick him when he's down_ , she chided herself sharply, and took a few hesitant steps closer to him. She was only a couple of metres away now, and she could see clearly what a bad way he was in. Not physically, so much. But his slumped, defeated posture and the beaten way he huddled in on himself told Hermione all she needed to know. She had probably looked like that herself, in the days after the...incident... at Malfoy's home.

Thinking of the torture made her mind jitter with the creeping fog of panic and Hermione pictured it again. Not as badly as she had the last few times she had seen Malfoy, but it still wasn't pleasant. She could almost feel the Manor's floor hard under her back as she stared down at him and remembered when she had stared  _up_  at him - had _begged_. He had seen Hermione at her most nakedly vulnerable, begging and pleading with him. Exposing herself in a way more intimate than being literally naked in front of him would have done so.

_Please! Please, Draco! I'm begging you please just kill me. Just kill me. Please._

"Granger?" His uneasy voice shattered the memory and suddenly Hermione was back in the cellar in front of him, still clutching Malfoy's dinner and her wand.

"Do you want your bloody food, Malfoy, or not?" she half-snarled, still caught up in the emotions her memories evoked in her. Malfoy flinched and then tried to recover himself, adjusting his coat around him with his one hand and running his fingers though his messy hair in an attempt at unruffled dignity. He gave it up after a moment, as Hermione stared at him and fumed quietly.

"No. It's fine. Don't bother," he answered at last, voice lifeless, and rested the side of his head against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut. A thread of worry coiled through Hermione. He didn't seem well at all - emotionally or mentally unwell that was, not physically.  _Physically_ , he seemed as well as a person could be in his situation, which admittedly wasn't that healthy, but was hardly terrible either. There was something in his defeated mien though that made her feel truly concerned for him. Hermione remembered all too well what the aftermath of her time in the Manor had been like. There had been days where she hadn't even gotten out of bed, huddled under her blankets and shutting out the world. She probably hadn't seemed much different to how he did right now - horribly depressed and internalising everything.

The difference had been that  _she'd_  had Harry and Ron to help her get through the initial repercussions. Malfoy had no one. Oh,  _damnit_ , Hermione hated feeling empathy toward Malfoy, and it was happening way too often lately. The dividing line between the good guys and the bad guys, the humans and the human monsters - it suddenly seemed so blurred. It was hard to hate Malfoy when he looked so...tired. "For Merlin's sake, don't be stupid, Malfoy! You have to eat," she snapped again and saw Malfoy smile slightly.

"You're a fucking bossy bitch aren't you, Granger?" he commented without rancour and Hermione blinked, taken aback.  _A bossy...?_

"Fine then, Malfoy. Starve yourself, for all I care." She bent down and shoved the plate on the ground with more force than needed, the chicken breast sliding right off the plate. Hermione caught Malfoy's quick inhalation of dismay as the meat landed on the dirt. She swore inwardly and vacillated for a moment, before picking the chicken breast up between finger and thumb.

" _Scourgify_ ," she said swiftly and dropped it back onto the plate and whirled away from him, heading for the stairs without another word. Hermione couldn't take any more of this. Five minutes with Malfoy and Hermione was wound tighter than a spring; she could  _feel_  the stress tension settling into her shoulders and neck. She was halfway up the steps and eager to be out when Malfoy's voice interrupted the sound of her feet clumping up the steps. Oh, Ginny was going to  _owe_  Hermione, all right.

" _Granger_. Granger, is my mother awake? Is she okay?"

Hermione paused and swung around to look at Malfoy's face - all trace of arrogance was gone, his expression one of humble pleading. It was so strange to see Malfoy showing sides of himself other than  _irritating nasty git_  or  _Death Eater in training_. Hermione was seeing him as a worried son, and the love for his mother was easy to read, printed all over his face as it was.

"I'm sorry I called you a bitch." He bit his lip. "I'm really sorry." Hermione could tell how hard it was for him to apologise; forcing himself to do it to try to get her to divulge information about Narcissa.

"You don't need to butter me up to get me to tell you how your mother is, Malfoy. Unlike you, I'm not a heartless arsehole." Hermione couldn't resist jabbing at him. She half-hoped he'd jab back, but he just took her words in and bowed under their weight. She knew it was because she was  _right_  but she still felt a twinge of guilt for saying it. This wasn't who Hermione was - she wasn't a person who hurt others, especially when they couldn't fight back, so to speak. Or at least, that wasn't the person she wanted to be. That would make her just like  _him_ , or at least, just like he  _had_  been. She wasn't sure who or what he was now that everything had changed so suddenly. Hermione drew a deep breath, summoned all her maturity, and tried to be fair - to not torment Malfoy by withholding information regarding something as obviously important to him as his mother's safety.

"She's fine. We've been keeping her in a magically induced sleep since removing the  _Imperius_..." she saw Malfoy look up at her sharply, a little life springing into his eyes in the form of worry for his mother. It wasn't usually recommended to keep someone sedated magically for too long; it had been known to cause side effects that weren't desirable.

"...Because we can't afford the time and effort to deal with her if she doesn't want to be here and tries to escape or fight us. But we've been looking after her, and she's okay, and we'll be waking her up soon, I think. You - you don't need to worry, Malfoy," Hermione continued reassuringly, feeling the oddest compulsion to be gentle with him, and Malfoy let out a breath and nodded.

"That's...that's good." She stood awkwardly on the steps, wand in hand and not sure what to do with the other one, not sure what she was supposed to do now. Say goodbye? Just leave?

"Can - can I see her after you wake her up?" Malfoy looked up at her with his grey eyes tinted with blue in the light the orb cast, sounding very young and unsure, and Hermione shifted uncomfortably on her feet. She  _really_  didn't like seeing him like this. A Malfoy that was being a horrible git?  _That_  she knew how to deal with. But this new version of him... Hermione was off-balance and at an utter loss.

"I - I don't know. That's not up to me."

"Oh." Malfoy's eyes dropped from hers finally, and Hermione drew in a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"Sorry," she said automatically and didn't want to take it back. It sounded right somehow, the one word hanging in the air between them. He licked his chapped lips.

"Can you tell her I'm okay?"

Hermione nodded silently. He seemed just like any other boy her age, frightened and alone, trapped in an awful situation because of his own mistakes and those of his parents. Trapped because of the awful lies his father had brought him up to believe in. It was suddenly quite clear to her, and her preconceptions were dealt a jarring blow, making her mind suddenly race with the thoughts her realisation had opened the door to. Malfoy had said the evening he'd arrived that it wasn't his mother's fault - that she had been brought up to believe the pureblood nonsense. That she had never had a chance. Well, Hermione thought dizzily, if that applied to Narcissa, then it certainly applied to Malfoy. Not, she added, that it  _absolved_  him of anything.

"And, and can you tell her that I say to please not fight this? Tell her I'm... _imploring_  her to - to behave. And tell her I'm sorry. That..." Malfoy paused and his pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment but he ploughed on. "...That I love her, and I only want to keep her safe. And I'll see her soon." Finished, he glared at Hermione as though he expected her to laugh at him, to mock him for his admission of love. She didn't. Her mind was still whirling around her shattered preconceptions, even as she tried to memorise what he had said.

"I'll tell her," Hermione assured him once she had committed the message to memory, and he nodded shortly, refusing to meet her gaze now, head bent and eyes down. She shifted uncomfortably on the stairs again and couldn't think of anything to say. 'Goodbye' would just sound  _stupid_ somehow. She stepped up the last few stairs to the trapdoor and thumped on it hard several times, and then waited for someone to come and open it. Hermione watched Malfoy in her peripheral vision as she waited. He sat on the dirt, shivering and dirty, and the sight triggered her well-developed sense of fairness again. Her anger flared up bright and her  _lumos_  flickered unevenly in sync with her emotions.

"And I'll make sure you get some things," she said firmly, and Malfoy glanced up at her, a question on his face. "A bed, table - that sort of thing." Hermione deliberately didn't mention a toilet or look at the bucket that hid away down the other end of the cellar. "It's not right, you not...they - we - shouldn't...you don't deserve..."  _Damnit._  Hermione swore silently as she scrabbled for words and came up with nothing that sounded right.

"I'll make sure you get some things," she repeated herself fiercely, angry with Harry for thinking it was fine to make  _anyone_  live down here without even a bed. Malfoy looked surprised, and opened his mouth to speak, but before Hermione could hear whatever it was he was going to say, the trapdoor cracked open.

Warm, cheery light flooded Hermione's vision and she shook her  _Lumos_  out, shielding her eyes slightly as she scrambled up out of the cellar. She looked back just for a second, and her sympathy panged as she saw him staring silently up at her from his hunched position on the ground, an unexpected miserable loneliness saturating his expression. The trapdoor fell shut behind her with a thud, and Ginny stepped on it casually, oblivious to the teenage boy alone beneath her feet, flashing Hermione a curious look.

" _You_  were down there for a while."

"Was I?" was all Hermione said, and smiled tightly at Ginny, the bright, homey light of the dining room still stinging her eyes. Everyone on this dinner schedule - they had three 'dinners' throughout the day because of the different shifts people operated on - was sitting around the table, which was laden and groaning with the weight of the food. Chatter sparkled loud and boisterous through the air; dinnertime was off-limits to any mention of the ongoing war. Molly Weasley insisted it was important to have some time together without thinking about the war, and she was right. I  _was_ nice to have a chance to relax as much as possible and focus on other more pleasant things, like Tonks' pregnancy and Fred and George's antics, the fond looks Mr and Mrs Weasley exchanged when they thought no one was looking.

But tonight, as Hermione found a free seat and looked around her, she couldn't just relax and soak up the warmth of the animated interactions that filled the room. She couldn't stop herself from comparing the bright, cosy atmosphere to the dank, lonely hole in the ground where Malfoy was right now. Just below their feet, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world, so different were their situations right now. She...Hermione felt bad for him. And this time, she didn't question the feeling - her eyes instead flicking to where Harry sat, sandwiched between Ginny and Ron, and Hermione promised herself she would have a bloody stern word with him after dinner.

She thought for the dozenth time to herself; no one deserved to be shoved down in the cellar like Malfoy was. She would feel bad for anyone in the same situation. Except for maybe Bellatrix and you-know-who. Hermione's innate sense of justice and fairness didn't go quite  _that_  far. Hermione stabbed a piece of chicken absentmindedly on her fork and thought she was getting beginning to get used to seeing Malfoy as human; someone with feelings and fears. And maybe...maybe it didn't feel so awful after all.


	6. 5. Little Reminders

 

_When you can't get up to the cold morning light_

_But you don't get to sleep in (still dreaming)_

_And everyone only wants to fight_

_You're up against never being right_

_When the worries of the world hold your feet_

_And there's little left to believe in_

_Today is going to be a better one_

_[Today Will Be Better, I Swear!, Stars]_

* * *

"Harry, hang on - can I talk to you please?" Hermione interrupted as Harry and Ginny tried to slip out of the dining room together after pudding, talking in low tones and staring at each other with naked affection. Harry froze and looked reluctantly at Hermione and then back to Ginny, who hung off his arm happily.

"But..."

"It's  _important_ , Harry," Hermione said, and frowned impatiently at him. Harry looked desperately again at Ginny, and Hermione rolled her eyes; he just wanted to sneak off with Ginny and snog her silly. Hermione sighed. "Harry. It's...it's about Malfoy," she said self-consciously, half embarrassed that she was going to all this effort for Draco Malfoy of all people, and certainly not wanting to broadcast her interest in him to the whole room. Or rather, not her interest in  _him_  - that was a silly way to put it. It sounded too...personal. Her concern over his living conditions. Yes, that sounded better. Hermione waited and got more and more annoyed as Harry vacillated between going upstairs with Ginny and snogging or staying and talking to his friend. Ginny solved Harry's indecision in the end, by letting him go and giving him a little nudge toward Hermione.

"Go on then." The redhead flashed Harry a  _look_  that Hermione wished she hadn't seen. "I'll be up in my room when you're done." Harry blushed beet red and nodded swiftly.

"Um, yes, right." Ginny giggled and smirked and gave Harry a cheeky little wave as she spun around with her long red hair flying, and clattered upstairs. Harry watched his girlfriend until she disappeared from sight, a rather sweet expression on his face, only snapping out of it when Hermione grabbed his wrist and dragged him through the foyer and into the little nook by the stairs, where the coat cupboard was.

"Bloody - calm down Hermione." He looked at her bewilderedly. "What on earth's the matter?"

"Malfoy." She said his name and Harry's face darkened.

"What did he say to you?"

Hermione shook her head, despairing at Harry's habit of jumping to conclusions before he knew any of the facts. Sometimes he leaped before he looked, and in that he reminded Hermione uneasily of Sirius. Harry was too quick to take risks, to make assumptions - to charge in blindly before having a concrete plan. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, wild tangles of hair coming loos from the bun at the back of her head and falling around her face. She brushed them off impatiently, tucking the wayward locks behind her ears and crossing her arms over her chest again.

"You stuck him in the cellar and didn't even give him a bed!"

"What?" Harry was taken aback by Hermione's vehement tone, the way her brown eyes narrowed as she glared at him disapprovingly. She repeated herself, slower this time.

"You didn't even give him a bed." She couldn't believe she was doing this for Malfoy.  _Malfoy_. But then Hermione remembered how dejected Malfoy had been; the way he had lashed out and called her a bossy bitch, sounding like his old insufferable self for a moment, before apologising pitiably and desperately to her. She remembered how miserable and lonely he had looked when she had left. It wasn't right to make  _anybody_  live in a cellar with even bed or a loo. It just wasn't right. Whether Malfoy might deserve it or not.

"I went down there and he was huddled up on the dirt shivering like a bloody leaf! He's got nowhere to sleep, nowhere to eat..." She avoided mentioning the bucket, the mere thought of it making her go hot with embarrassment on Malfoy's behalf.

"I - I..." Harry stuttered, his back pressed against the side of the stairs as Hermione levelled the full force of her glare on him. Hermione realised slowly that Harry hadn't even thought about Malfoy's living conditions. He'd been down there, seen the cellar, and obviously hadn't thought anything of it. Hermione felt a strange pang of disappointment.

"I didn't think..." Harry tried to defend himself, and Hermione took a step back and rubbed her hands over her face, exhaled tiredly.

"I can see that, Harry. But that's the problem, isn't it? You just didn't think about it," Hermione scolded mildly, shaking her head. "Harry, he may be a prisoner, but he surrendered to us. He turned himself over. And he hasn't tried to cause any trouble so far. And I don't think he's going to, do you?" She paused and waited for Harry to respond, and he shook his head in agreement, subdued.

"We can't keep him like that, Harry. That's what the other side would do. And I don't want to be like  _them_ ," Hermione ended softly, and there was a brief silence in their little nook beside the stair. In the dining room and lounge noise and chatter resounded, but Hermione and Harry stood in a little bubble of fraught silence. The moment broke when Harry let out a little puff of breath and scratched at his head, looking an odd mix of rueful and defensive.

"You're right. I'll sort it out, 'Mione. You're...right." And then he looked at her shrewdly. "Why do you care so much anyway? I thought you'd be happy the arrogant prick was getting a taste of his own medicine?" he asked.

"He had his  _hand cut off_ , Harry! I think that's enough of his  _own medicine_ , don't you?" The words burst out without thought or consideration. "Not to mention that while he might not be perfect,  _he_   _let me go_. He - he let me go... And for that he got tortured and you-know-who  _pulled his fingers off_  and fed them to his  _snake_. I think he's paid the price for whatever horrible things he's done. Paid the price and then some," she finished awkwardly and with quiet sadness, the sudden anger Harry had provoked slipping away as she realised how loudly she had yelled at him, how furious she had gotten on Malfoy's behalf. Now she just felt stupid and somehow  _exposed_  as Harry stared at her, green eyes boggling behind his round glasses.

Hermione hadn't even consciously considered what she was yelling at Harry, but it had been right. Malfoy  _had_  paid the price. She hadn't thought about it that way until this very moment, but it seemed that what Malfoy had lost and suffered through was more than enough punishment for his crimes. A large part of her reminded herself not to go forgiving too quickly. She would have to wait and see if the change in Malfoy was genuine or a really very good act. Hermione wasn't about to leap into thinking Malfoy was a wonderful bloke because he'd suffered - him suffering didn't change the fact that so many others, innocents, had suffered because of his actions. Hermione swallowed hard. Malfoy having lost his hand didn't make her feel any better about the torture she had suffered through. But still; the Order didn't need to add to Malfoy's suffering.

"He's lost his family, his home, his hand... He's still an arsehole, but he's not being a bad guy anymore Harry." Harry nodded thoughtfully, still watching Hermione carefully, as though he was afraid she might go off at him again.

"Fair enough, 'Mione," he said soothingly and Hermione bit her lip.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she gulped, contemplating saying,  _I just felt so sorry for him_ , and then Ron's voice interrupted with loud concern.

"You two all right, there?" Hermione swore under her breath and noticed both of the boys giving her odd looks. Harry answered Ron with a sideways glance at Hermione.

"We're just talking about getting Malfoy a few things for the cellar. If he's going to be down there a while...well, he'll need a bed and the like."

"Nah, just leave him," Ron said cheerfully, beaming at Hermione and Harry. "See how he likes things when he's not the poncy little Slytherin prince anymore. See how he likes life when people aren't sucking up to him every second and he doesn't have his  _friends_  looking out for him." Hermione felt a moment of disconnection. Ron said it so  _casually_ ; he had so completely  _othered_  Malfoy that he really didn't give a fig  _what_  happened to him. In fact, the more miserable Malfoy was that better, in Ron's opinion. Hermione supposed she had been guilty of that too...although in her mind she thought she had a better reason to dislike Malfoy than Ron. Ron had never been pinned by a spell to the Malfoy's floor while Bellatrix...

She fought a flood of memories for a few seconds, and when she focused on the present again, she heard Ron saying:

"...Malfoy, being reduced to shitting in a bucket. Merlin, that's  _priceless_. Just a pity you gave him toilet paper! Just imagine if you hadn't and, he'd, he'd -" Ron couldn't keep going he was laughing so much, and Hermione felt the blood drain from her face with cold, horrified fury. And shame, too, because a few nights ago she probably would have thought it was mildly funny too, if desperately immature.

"You know, you really can be a bloody  _arse_  sometimes,  _Ronald_ ," she snapped out and stormed past a bewildered Ron. Hermione put her hand ascended the first few stairs and then rested her hand on the banister and fixed the boys down beside the stairs with a fierce look. "And when you get him a bed and whatever else he should have, make sure you find a way to put a fucking  _loo_  in there," she added irately, and then thundered up the stairs, wiping away hot tears of confused anger and shame.

"What did I  _say_?" she heard Ron ask Harry, voice hurt and bewildered as her feet raced up the steps.

"Never mind, mate." Harry answered. "But she's right; we'd better put in a bloody loo."

" _Fucking_  ferret," was the last thing Hermione heard as she reached her bedroom, Ron's voice drifting faintly up the stairs and down the hall. "Lupin should've just left him and his bloody mother at Grimmauld Place for you-know-who to take care of."

Hermione slammed her bedroom door behind her.

* * *

The cellar was far better lit than it had been, the orb of light that floated in the middle of the ceiling having been joined by four more, all emitting a warm yellow hue rather than dim blue. Draco stood aimlessly by the stairs and watched all the activity going on around him. Potter, the Weasel, Lupin and the Weasley twins were busy transforming the space. A shrunken bed - the easiest way to get it through the trapdoor - had been placed in one corner and enlarged to human proportions, a small table and one chair had been lugged down the stairs, and even a dresser was been placed at the end of the bed for him. Merlin knew why, it wasn't like Draco had any clothes to put in it. And now they were working away in a corner with a combination of spells and materials, erecting what Draco believed was a toilet.

Please, dear Merlin let it be a toilet.

He had been rudely awoken that morning by the trapdoor being flung open and a troupe of people charging down into his cellar without warning. For a second he had thought... Draco swallowed hard. For a second he had thought that something had happened and the Order had finished playing nice. That he was going to be tortured. Or killed. But he hadn't been. Instead Potter had looked over at Draco, curled on the dirt under his coat and shivering, and said a brusque good morning. Draco had struggled to wakefulness and his feet.

"Potter," he'd mumbled in a sleep-fogged voice, hating that he had been caught unawares by the bloody Boy-Who-Lived and his worshippers.

"We've come to...spruce the place up a bit, Malfoy," Potter had continued, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "You've been behaving well, and I think you deserve some recognition of that fact." Potter had relayed the information like he thought he was doing Draco an enormous favour. The  _prick_. The fucking smug  _prick_.

Draco had wished for his wand as he had wrapped his filthy coat around him and stared at Potter with hate smouldering inside, warming him like his coat couldn't. But Draco didn't have his wand - Potter did. And so instead of telling the Golden Boy exactly what he thought of him or hexing the bastard, Draco had simply shut his mouth, and nodded numbly at Potter. Luckily the Order members had ignored Draco and just gotten on with their work, and within a matter of half an hour, everything was done. Lupin and the Weasley twins finished up with sighs of relief and heading up out of the cellar without a single glance at Draco. It was like he didn't even exist - not worth noticing. The implication grated on him, and he clenched his jaw, the anger and humiliation that were his constant companions lately flaring in the face of their dismissal of him.

He was a Malfoy...and then he had to remind himself he wasn't.

"Malfoy. We're all done. Someone will be down with your breakfast soon." Harry nodded as he ascended the stairs, calling to the Weasel. "Come on, Ron." Weasley, Draco realised, was standing near the magically installed loo, staring at Draco with an oddly blank expression on his face. Draco shifted on his feet under the contemptuous weight of Ronald Weasley's stare, pulling his coat closer around him.

"I'll be up in a minute, Harry," the Weasel said, and from the corner of his eye Draco saw the redhead  _smile_ at him, and a deep fear welled up. He shrank further down on himself, resisting the urge to cringe into a corner. Potter stopped in his tracks, and with a bare glance for Draco, hurried back down the stairs and over to the Weasel.

"What are you doing, Ron?" Draco overheard Harry ask in quiet, tense tones. Weasley shrugged.

"I just wanted a word with the ferret."

"No, Ron." Potter sounded tired, and he scrubbed a hand through that messy hair, and Draco remembered a time when his hair had been immaculate in comparison to Potter's, but no longer. "Come on Ron, don't do this. This isn't how we work." Draco's ears strained to pick up the muted conversation, and Potter looked around and saw Draco staring and frowned briefly at him, before turning back to Weasley.

"I'm not going to hurt him, Harry...well, maybe a little, but..."

"Ron. We don't bloody do that," Potter said in a fierce whisper, and then added in an even lower voice such that Draco could barely make his words out: "Besides, 'Mione wouldn't like it. You know that." Draco's eyebrows arched; Granger would disapprove of the Weasel tormenting him? That was...perhaps not entirely unexpected. It was probably her who had arranged this little  _redecoration_  like she had promised. Draco honestly hadn't expected her to keep her word. He felt oddly set off-balance.

"She doesn't have to know." The Weasel shot a murderous look at Draco. "He let them bloody  _torture_  her, Harry, without even trying to stop them. And who knows who else he's hurt, or murdered even. I just want to..." Weasley's voice was tight and Draco flinched and took a step back into the shadows. He'd never murdered anyone, but he'd hurt far too many people, and his newly acquired guilt ate into him.

"Ron..." Potter sounded less sure now, and the Weasel pressed the advantage.

"Just go upstairs, Harry. I'll be up in five minutes. Just give me five minutes," the redhead wheedled.

"Ron..."

"It was Hermione! You know she has nightmares about it. Wakes up crying, won't leave the house, has those things she calls panic attacks... She's permanently  _scarred_. Even if she gets past the, the flashbacks and the nightmares, she has the scars to remind her of it - every fucking day. And  _he_  helped them do that to her." Draco shut his eyes. Hearing Weasley say that... Draco had never really comprehended what the torture must have done to Granger until now. Guilt stabbed knives into him. He fucking hated the Weasel, but the bastard had made his point. Potter seemed to think so too, because after a moment's pause his voice came to Draco's ears, strained and low.

"I'll see you upstairs in two minutes, Ron." So Potter had made his choice. Draco wouldn't have expected the Golden Boy to make that decision, and as he looked over at Ronald Weasley, wand in hand, Draco really wished Potter had chosen differently. The redhead looked truly dangerous, not at all like the bumbling fool he'd been at school. He wasn't someone Draco could mock anymore. He supposed inanely that months of being on the run, and more months of skirmishes with Death Eaters had hardened Weasley. He took an unthinking step further back into the shadows, as if he could hide himself. Fucking stupid.

The trapdoor thudded shut and Draco flinched. He shut his eyes for a brief second, steeling himself. What could Ronald Weasley do that the Dark Lord hadn't? Draco had survived that - whatever Weasley did to him would be  _nothing_  in comparison.

"Ferret," Weasley said, twirling his wand in his hand and strolling toward where Draco huddled, completely defenceless. It used to be the other way around; Draco with the wand and all the power, and Weasley a helpless fool. Draco imagined Weasley was enjoying this role reversal. He said nothing in response, and Weasley frowned.

"Not so fucking up yourself when you're unarmed are you?" Weasley baited him, and then laughed shortly, "Un _armed_ , oh, good one, Ron," he congratulated himself and Draco felt sick. He hated it when people mentioned his hand. Hated it.

"If it were up to me, I'd gift wrap you and leave you on your precious bloody  _Dark Lord's_  doorstep." Weasley was right in front of Draco now, and Draco backed up further until his back hit the wall. Weasley stalked forward to close the distance and grinned mirthlessly. "Unfortunately, that's one of the many things  _we don't do_." He waggled his wand warningly. "However, apparently I  _am_  allowed to have a little fun with you."

"I thought Granger wouldn't like it?" Draco said desperately and humiliatingly afraid of this  _new_  Ronald Weasley, with his cold eyes and battle-hardened confidence.  _Invoking Granger's name to save your arse? Brilliant, Draco, just fucking brilliant. How_ pathetic _are you?_  Draco berated himself mentally. Weasley leaned forward.

"She doesn't have to find out, does she, ferret? No need to go and upset her with things she doesn't need to know about."

"Upset? She have a  _soft spot_  for me, does she? I always  _thought_  she was a little too vehement about her hating me. You know what they say..." Draco spoke before he thought, shades of his old, uncowed, arrogant self, and Weasley's wand was at his throat before he'd finished speaking.

"Shut your bloody mouth, Malfoy. You don't speak about Hermione like that," he snarled, and then took a sharp breath and stepped back, wrestling his anger back under control again.

"Does it piss you off, Malfoy. What you are now?" Weasley changed tack suddenly, and Draco blinked, confused. He had expected Weasley to throw a few hexes, rough him up a bit. He hadn't expected whatever the fuck this was. "Does it hurt to know your father hates you?" Weasley continued and Draco's eyes slipped to the ground, staring at his shoes. It did, her thought silently. Even after everything his father had done since the day Granger had been tortured... It still hurt. He was his  _father_  for Merlin's sake...his  _father_. He was supposed to  _love_  Draco, not...

Weasley's voice continued, sharp and triumphant: "I think it must. Just like it must hurt to lose your hand. How does it feel, Malfoy, to know that for the rest of your life, you're going to be a useless cripple?" Draco's pulse quickened and his breath came in small quiet gasps as Weasley taunted him. "The promising young Slytherin  _arsehole_ , now a mutilated outcast. Reducing to crawling to your enemies for  _protection_."

 _Mutilated_.

 _Outcast_.

Draco felt tears veil his eyes, and his view of his shoes and the packed dirt ground wavered. He shut his eyes and begged himself to not cry, not in front of Weasley. Please, Merlin, not in front of Weasley.

"How does it feel, Malfoy? Relying on the mercy of the girl you allowed to be tortured? Grovelling at the Order's feet?" Weasley made a laughing sound, but there was no humour in it, only disgust. "You're scum, Malfoy. Scum." Draco deliberately bit his tongue until his teeth pierced its flesh, trying to focus on the pain and not Weasley's words.

"Look at me. Bloody look at me, Malfoy!" Weasley ordered and Draco kept his eyes shut, face toward the ground. So he didn't see it coming. Didn't see Weasley stow his wand in his pocket and reach out and grab Malfoy's right arm with one hand, yank it away from his body before he could react. Draco opened his eyes then and struggled, but he was weak after all he had been through, and Weasley wasn't. Weasley held Draco's arm in an iron grip and clamped his other hand over Draco's stump with a look of utter revulsion. Squeezed, and Draco couldn't stop a whimper from escaping as pain blossomed like fire in his stump, radiating up the nerves of his arm, right through to his shoulder, his chest.

"Stop," he gasped without thought. "Please,  _please... Stop!_ "

"Bloody look at me, then, when I'm talking to you, Malfoy." Weasley let go of Draco's stump and wiped his hand on his trousers disgustedly, but his other hand kept hold of Draco's forearm. Draco looked at Weasley, blinking back tears of pain and setting his jaw, making his eyes cold and blank with an enormous effort of will. He wouldn't give Weasley the satisfaction. Weasley started talking.

"You're scum. You've hurt people, I know that; Hermione is one of them. Maybe you weren't the one torturing her, but you stood there and let it happen. That alone makes you cowardly scum in my opinion, and I know she wasn't the only torture you were there for. There must have been others." Draco refused to show emotion, and Weasley kept going.

"The Order may have taken pity on you. We may have taken you in,  _pathetic_  and harmless as you are now, but don't you  _ever_  make the mistake of thinking you deserve to be here. Don't you  _ever_." Draco listened silently. "Because you  _don't_  deserve to be here. You don't deserve Hermione's misguided sympathy.  _Remember that_. Everyone here, unlike you, is a bloody good person. They want to see the best in people - even fucking  _filth_  like you." Draco wanted to shut out what Weasley was saying, wanted to  _not hear it_. Because every word was fucking true and he hated himself enough already. He couldn't...couldn't listen to this. But he did, because he didn't have any other choice.

"So no matter how anyone treats you, no matter how  _decent_  the Order is to you... Even if you get everyone else to forget what you really are... Just remember that I know what you are, Malfoy." Weasley's eyes were narrowed, his face white, freckles standing out starkly as he sneered at Draco.

"I bloody well know  _exactly_ what kind of evil scum you are. And if I think ever think you're going to hurt someone I care about, I will do what Harry or Hermione or any of the others can't. I will fucking  _end_  you slowly. You understand me, Malfoy?" Draco stared at Weasley, numbed, shocked.

"Do you fucking understand me,  _mate_?" The last word dripped with contempt, and Ron's hand closed over Draco's stump, gripped it hard again. Draco's body tensed and he hissed quietly at the agony but refused to make a sound like he had before. He knew what Weasley wanted, and so he gave it to him; he nodded obediently, like a pitiful puppet, unable to speak because of the pain.

"Good," Weasley said and released Draco, stepped back with a sudden hard smile, and with a wave of his wand, put out all the lights but one. "This was fun, Malfoy. We should do it again sometime, right?"

Draco cradled his injured limb to his body and he knew Weasley would be able to see the helpless hate and shame in his eyes; knew he'd gloat over the sight. But he couldn't hide it.

"Yeah, thought so, mate," Weasley said with a broad grin after a brief pause, and clumped merrily up the stairs, whistling, as though the last five minutes had meant nothing to him. And maybe they hadn't, to Weasley. More likely, though, he'd enjoyed it. Draco hadn't. For the hundredth time in the past few months, Draco experienced the horrible knowledge that someone he had once despised and looked down on was  _right_ , and he had been wrong. Draco was  _exactly_  what Weasley had said he was. He could have gone and sat down on his new, comfortable bed, but he didn't. No, Draco belonged exactly where he was.

He slid down to the ground, a heap in the dirt, clutching his stump gingerly and fighting back tears.


	7. 6. I've Been Wrong

 

 _I've got this place_  
That I've filled with empty space  
Oh I'm trying not to face what I've done  
My hopeless opus  
I'm in this race and I'm hoping just to place  
Oh I'm trying not to face what's become of me  
My hopeless opus

_[Hopeless Opus, Imagine Dragons]_

* * *

This time Hermione had  _asked_  to be the one to take Malfoy his lunch having the job foisted upon her. She wanted to make sure Harry had made good on his word to make the cellar at least liveable for Malfoy; she didn't trust him not to have forgotten something important, whether on purpose or by accident. Hermione would never normally suspect Harry to treat a person badly, prisoner or not. But this was Malfoy, and somehow Hermione suspected Harry and Ron might think the rules were different where 'the ferret' was concerned. Mrs Weasley opened the trapdoor for Hermione and she picked her way down the steep steps carefully, peering into the dim space, lunch tray held in both hands.

"Malfoy?" The cellar definitely looked better, Hermione noted as she peered around looking for Malfoy. There was a neat bed, an old dresser, a card table and folding chair, and in the corner a walled off box that Hermione guessed with a blush must be the toilet. But Malfoy himself was nowhere in sight.

"Malfoy?" Hermione set the tray of food down on the card table, which wobbled briefly as she touched it. He still hadn't answered her, and Hermione had a twinge of ridiculous worry that Ron had  _actually_  murdered him. She set her hands on her jean-clad hips and stared around the room, turning around and trying to see into the many shadows. There! She thought she made out a shape by the stairs. God, what was he doing? She walked slowly over, cautious.

"Malfoy. Are you all right?" He sat on the dirt instead of his neat bed in the corner, all crumpled up into a ball. Was he hurt? Sick? Had Ron really actually hurt him somehow? Hermione's heart rate picked up for a few worried seconds, and then she rolled her eyes as he moved slightly but didn't respond.

"Malfoy!" she snapped his name sharply, annoyed at him for making her worry, and more annoyed with herself for worrying, and taking all that annoyance out on him. He looked up at last, without a smile or a word, his eyes shadowed and red rimmed like he'd been crying.

Hermione swallowed. She didn't like him. She had nothing in common with him. He had done horrible things to her, even at school, and had been there when... But, she told herself, he wasn't that person anymore, and, and he had been  _crying_. She told herself she didn't have to like Malfoy to feel sympathy for him. Hermione bit her lip, and made a decision.

"Why are you sitting down here? You have a bed now, you know. A  _chair_ , even," she tried to joke slightly, and it fell horribly flat under the weight of his darkened eyes.

"You kept your word," he said hoarsely. "I suppose I should be grateful."

"It's the usual response in polite society, Malfoy," Hermione answered pointedly but without real malice, picking nervously at her fingernails.

"Thank you," he said quietly and without emotion, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere past her shoulder, the pale light on his face showing dried tear streaks down his grubby cheeks.

"So why are you sitting down here?" Hermione prodded, more to fill in the silence than anything. She wouldn't be able to help feeling like a terrible person if she just walked out and left Malfoy tear-stained and huddled in this dark space by the stairs. She watched him bite his lip, teeth very white in the light, worrying his bottom lip gently.

"It doesn't matter... I don't..." He trailed off and then focused his eyes on her, a little clarity coming back to them. "Besides, it's clean and I'm absolutely filthy, thanks to apparently not being allowed the  _privilege_ of washing. I don't want to..." He looked down at himself; and Hermione noticed again his still-dirty clothes and his grubby face.

"Oh." Hermione hadn't thought of that. She fiddled nervously with a lock of her hair; her thick mane loose and somewhat tamed today - shiny and wavy rather than bushy. "I'll ask Harry to get a, ah, shower put down here." He was silent in response. She gnawed on the inside of her cheek; cast her gaze awkwardly about the room. Being friendly to Malfoy was bloody hard, no matter how sorry she felt for him. And him sitting there looking awful and miserable, and barely saying 'boo' didn't help either. She pressed on, though.

"Do you, um, want some company?" She smiled at him tentatively and the friendly expression seemed to confuse him, his brows scrunching together.

"If you want," he said, trying for indifference and just sounding young and uncertain and dreadfully lonely. Hermione would never have thought Draco Malfoy, a prig of the first order, was capable of seeming so normal. Of behaving and feeling just like any other teenage boy in his situation would; lonely and scared, friendless and traumatised. Not that he'd ever admit to that, she knew. Hermione nodded, the matter settled, and looked around for something to sit on. In the end she just plonked down on the floor with legs folded up under her, pulling her jersey sleeves down over her hands and tucking them in her lap as a draught nipped at her and made her shiver.

"It's Molly Weasley's cooking, of course," Hermione said after a long silence. She nodded her head over at the lunch of corned beef, vegetables and bread. "So it's absolutely delicious." Malfoy nodded silently and Hermione was left at a loss.

"You should eat it before it gets cold," she tried, and to her surprise he nodded again and struggled to his feet one-handed. It looked like it was a little difficult for Malfoy to even just stand up, and Hermione couldn't help staring in pity for a second; looking away quickly before he saw her sympathetic gaze. She jumped to her feet and brushed the dirt off the seat of her jeans trying to cover up her uncomfortableness, and then realised how easy and graceful it was for her to stand. The stark contrast between how thoughtlessly and easily she could scramble to her feet, and Draco's clumsy movements made her wince.

"There's only the one chair," Draco observed without emotion as he stared down at the tray of food, and Hermione shivered. He spoke like he was dead inside, like he'd given up. She thought again of how she didn't like him...but god did she ever feel sorry for him. She forced a smile.

"Oh... I'll be perfectly comfortable on your bed, Malfoy." The look he gave her was startled, his eyes wide and silvery in the light,  _looking_  at her like he really saw her for the first time since he'd brought his lunch down. She tucked her hair behind her ears and flushed, eyes dropping to the ground. That hadn't come out right at all. She had been trying to sound friendly, not...

"I'm sorry,  _what_  was that, Granger?" Malfoy asked, and sounded almost like a slightly nicer version of his snarky old self; his voice more animated as his eyes swept disbelievingly over her. Hermione's face felt hot.

"Um. Your bed, Malfoy. I don't mind sitting there. While, um, you eat." She paused and gulped, stumbling over her words like an idiot. "If you don't mind, of course." His response wasn't the look of contempt and mocking she half-expected; he actually smiled faintly, tired amusement crossing his face.

"Feel free, Granger," he told her dryly, and the awkward moment passed as Hermione perched on the edge of bed. She wasn't sure why she was doing this. What she  _did_  know was that solitary confinement was something that Muggle prisons used only when it was totally unavoidable, because of the enormous mental toll of being alone in a cell 24/7. And Draco wasn't a hardened adult criminal; he was, despite his actions for the other side over the years, just a teenage boy - a teenage boy who had lost his entire  _world_ , and even a part of his physical self.

She wanted to give the Order the benefit of the doubt and assume they didn't know about the effects of solitary on a mind and weren't being purposely cruel. Maybe they just took it for granted, what with Azkaban being the only magical prison in Britain - that was far worse than a cellar. Hermione wasn't really surprised Malfoy wanted her company, even though they had only exchanged a few words. What would they talk about anyway? The only shared experiences they had were negative, and although she was more comfortable being around Malfoy in regards to her flashbacks, his presence still made her feel a little shaky. Off-kilter. But she knew that  _that_  at least wasn't really his fault, telling herself over and over in the back of her mind,  _he let me go. He didn't have to but he let me go._

Malfoy glanced uncertainly over at Hermione, and then reached for the fork. With his right hand. The stump of his wrist stuck out over the table, and he looked down at it for a second, as if he was surprised by its scarred presence. As if he had forgotten he had it, which he obviously had. Hermione winced as she saw his face cycle through a series of emotions; brief shock, then hurt, despair, anger. Malfoy's eyelashes fluttered as he blinked rapidly, his jaw clenched and pale complexion draining further of colour. He swore, and his face crumpled as he tucked his arm quickly away out of sight again. But Hermione had already seen it; better than she had seen it before. It was a normal arm, except that it ended abruptly where it should have matched the other limb; his bony wrist, and elegant, long-fingered hand.

"Does it hurt?" Hermione asked, unable to help herself.

"Yes," was all he said, tone short and clipped, eyes slipping down to stare at the foreshortened limb.

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Granger." She sat perched on the edge of the bed, her two - whole - hands twining in her lap and looked at Malfoy, fumbling with the fork, staring helplessly at the meat. Hermione had the sudden, totally mad, urge to offer to cut up the corned beef for him. She didn't. Draco Malfoy, unable to even feed himself properly. Should she be happy? Ron would be gleeful. Harry would be quietly, slightly guiltily pleased. Hermione...Hermione just felt sad.

"Thank you, Malfoy," she said impulsively, words garbled together in her embarrassed rush. He glared up at her, taken aback and immediately on the defensive.

"For what?" he asked ungraciously, and Hermione shrugged.

"For letting me go." Malfoy chuckled bitterly and for a second Hermione thought that he was going to mock her sentiment.

"It was hardly anything special, Granger," he said instead. "Most people..." His face was filled with shame and self-recrimination. Hermione shrugged again.

"We all know you aren't most people, Malfoy." She wasn't sure if she meant it as a compliment or not. "The point is, you saved my life. So...thanks," she finished awkwardly, dropping her eyes to her lap. He obviously had no idea what to say in the face of her thanks, so he said nothing. Instead he began eating slowly, his gaze sliding to rest on her every now and then, as if to check she was still there, mingled suspicion and gratitude in his look. It was cruel to keep him locked up like this, alone, with nothing to do all day but sit and dwell on everything that had happened to him. She reminded herself harshly;  _and everything that he has done, don't forget that too. He's no innocent._

His plate kept sliding away from him as he tried to painstakingly cut through his corned beef, and he swore under his breath. Hermione would have offered to help, but she didn't think he would appreciate it. In the end he was forced to bring out his mutilated arm, resting the upper part of his forearm on the edge of the plate to hold it still. Two red spots burnt high on his cheeks; humiliation, Hermione guessed. It was a slow process, and Hermione knew she shouldn't stare, but she couldn't stop her gaze lifting from her hands to his stump.

Malfoy caught her.

"You're staring, Granger. Didn't your mudblood parents teach you that was rude?" His voice was tight and trembled with obvious embarrassment, eyes narrowed angrily. Hermione gasped in a short breath as the slur was thrown at her, and her mouth twisted up and tears sprang to her eyes.

" _Mudblood_?  _Really_ , Malfoy?"

"Shit, Granger. I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Malfoy cleared his throat and she saw fear dancing in his eyes. Hermione could see herself in his place; he didn't want to her go, to hear the trapdoor slam shut behind her and to be left alone, without any real human contact until god knew when.

"Force of habit," he said at last in a tight voice, and Hermione nodded, accepting that.

"Don't do it again," she told him and she could hear the coldness in her voice as she spoke.

"I won't." He was instantly apologetic and subdued; none of the arrogant Malfoy manner apparent right now as he turned humble eyes back to his lunch. There was another long silence as he ate, and she, for lack of anything else to do, watched him surreptitiously. It was peaceful, in a weird sort of way. Upstairs there was always noise and busyness, always things to be done, talk of the war nearly constantly on people's lips. Down here with Malfoy it was dim and empty apart from him, and Hermione found the silence oddly soothing.

His stump was still on the table; he hadn't hidden it back under his coat after cutting his meat up. It was scarred in red and purple, raised ridges and sunken lines, and Hermione wondered how exactly it had been done, and who had done it. Had it been Voldemort? Or had you-know-who let someone else do it, as some sort of sick reward. Her eyes were locked to it, her thoughts making her vaguely squeamish, but she just couldn't stop staring.

"Is there something you want to  _say_ , Granger?" Draco's voice cut through the air and Hermione jerked her eyes up to meet his. There was a pained expression in his. "Something you want to ask me?"

"Wh-what?" She went beetroot red.

"You're  _staring_  again, Granger."

"I - I - How did it happen, Malfoy?"

"What?" His outraged gaze pinned Hermione like a struggling beetle on its back and she wanted to take the words back but it was too late, so she just ploughed on stammeringly.

"Who...who did it? Your hand, I mean. What happened?" The set of Malfoy's features shifted, and hot outrage turned icy but no less incensed for that, eyes hard as frosted steel. Hermione was suddenly, shockingly reminded that Malfoy had the Dark Mark branded on his arm beneath his sleeve. That he had been a Death Eater. That he had, maybe not killed people, but hurt them. Tortured them. Stood by and watched people die without saying a word in their defence, because they were just  _mudbloods_  and  _Muggles_ ; worthless nothings, no better than animals. He had been party to monstrous acts, if not the perpetrator of them, and he might be maimed, but Hermione saw with crystal clarity, he could still be dangerous if he chose. She stood and those cold, hard eyes followed her.

"What  _happened?_  What happened when I lost my hand? Who took it from me, who maimed me? You want to know do you, Granger? All the gory details?" His tone was pure venom and Hermione shrank from him, silent, edging around toward the stairs. "I don't see how that's any of your  _fucking_  business, Granger."

"It's not. It's not and I'm sorry I bloody well asked," she snapped; hurt trembling in her chin and welling up in her eyes. "I was just trying to... I just wondered how...who... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything and I certainly didn't mean anything by it."

"Didn't you?" He stood and loomed over her; still capable of appearing intimidating despite his too-thin frame and his arm huddled against his abdomen. "You sure about that? Not trying to dig up information for the Order, or get the story out of me so that you and Potty and the Weasel and all your little friends can laugh at me? Laugh about how the  _fucking ferret_  lost his hand?" Malfoy's face was pinched and white.

"No I didn't, you bloody  _prick_ ," Hermione burst out, tears leaking from her eyes and she was too angry to bother wiping them away. She waved her arms in wild gesticulations as she shouted at Malfoy. "I don't have to be here, you know. I could just leave your food on the top step like everyone else does! But I thought you might...I thought you might be lonely, and I wanted...I wanted to make you feel better. Unlike you, I'm not an  _evil_ ,  _pompous_   _arsehole_!" She glared at him wildly, backing towards the steps out of the cellar as she drew in gulping breaths. "But if you think I'm, I'm just some...I don't know. But I'm not going to waste my time on someone who goes off at me for asking a question!"

"It wasn't just a bloody  _question_!" he roared at her suddenly, and Hermione's heels hit the bottom step and she almost overbalanced as she skittered back. "Asking about... You should  _know_  that's not just a  _bloody question_. Answering those sorts of questions is opening the door to memories of pain and helplessness and...and everything. It's exposing yourself to the person who asks the question.  _And you should know that._ So fuck you,  _mudblood_ ," Malfoy ended, face anguished; still as vehement but voice quieter, chest rising and falling hard as he caught his breath, body shaking. Hermione swallowed and sniffed noisily, staring at Malfoy miserably.

"I - I have to go," she said. "I think - I think I should go now."

"Granger..." Malfoy rubbed his hand over his face, and when he pulled it away the anger was gone, leaving only pale exhaustion. Hermione licked her lips and stepped back up one step.

"I -I..." She turned and started stumbling up the steps with tear-blurred eyes and over her choking breaths heard Malfoy sigh tiredly.

"Granger...don't you  _understand_?" She froze, shoulders stiff, facing the trapdoor and not Malfoy. She did understand, and that was partly why she was crying, partly why she wanted to just flee. It had been insensitive to ask him what she had. Bloody  _thick_. She had been just as much an arsehole as Malfoy had, and that was a horrible truth to accept, but she did. Hermione blinked hard and nodded without looking around.

"Granger, don't go."

"Why?"

"I...Merlin, don't make me say it..." Malfoy sighed and Hermione turned around, the combination of his words and tone strangely compelling.

" _Why_  don't you want me to go, Malfoy?" She  _wanted_  to make him say it, she wanted to  _hear_ it, and she didn't know why.

"I...I enjoyed your company, I suppose," he grated out, grey eyes luminous on hers. It sounded so surreal to hear Malfoy say those words, even reluctantly as he didn't. It had sounded like they had been physically dragged from him, under pain of death. Hermione bit her lip, pausing.

"You called me a mudblood.  _Again_."

"You asked me who cut my hand off," he re-joined sharply and Hermione massaged her temples, a headache starting. She couldn't be around him right now; all this was just too much. Hermione was hurt and angry and guilty, and damnit, she shouldn't have to feel all those complicated, upsetting feelings because of  _Malfoy_. He was just someone she felt sorry for. That was all. They weren't friends - they weren't even acquaintances. She had just been trying to... She sighed at herself, at her own convoluted thought processes. Hermione told herself it was because she didn't like seeing people miserable. She just hadn't wanted to leave him in the shadows behind the stairs; eyes all red from crying and with tear trails down his gaunt cheeks. And now they were  _both_  miserable  _and_  angry, and her plan to make him feel a bit less awful hadn't worked out at all.

"I...I'm just...I really should go, Malfoy. We're just... It's not... I - I'll see you later, though."

He stared at her from the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and desperate.

"Granger, please, stay. I swear I'll try not to be an arse." Hermione thumped on the trapdoor and looked down at him, staring pleadingly at her.

"I'll come back," she promised him emphatically, not knowing why she was promising. She didn't owe him anything.

"Granger... Granger..." He said her name but nothing else, tired and pleading and Hermione suddenly needed to run very, very far away. Her breath clogged in her chest and she couldn't breathe. This was Draco Malfoy the ex-Death Eater. The boy who had tried to kill Dumbledore, and very nearly killed other people in the process. The boy who hadn't done anything when she begged for help as Bellatrix tortured her. He shouldn't be standing just below her, desperation for her to stay  _with him_  written all over his face and clear in his stricken voice.  _Why? Why?_ Was he that desperate, that lonely? If so, it shouldn't be Hermione. It shouldn't be Hermione that Malfoy was depending upon, clinging to for human contact.

She couldn't do it. It was too strange, too confusing, too frightening, feeling sorry for him and almost liking him, and then looking at him and suddenly remembering something so painful, so disturbing.

_Draco looked at Hermione - at her half-exposed chest with the words 'mudblood', 'scum', and 'whore' scrawled bloody above her simple white cotton bra. "What do you want?" The words were barely audible, a dull low murmur._

"Granger, please..."

"What's the point in me staying, Draco? We don't even like each other." She was brutally honest, too caught up in the snippet of memory that had come to mind to care about what she was saying. "I only stayed because you looked so miserable and I felt sorry for you...but there's no point if we're just going to snipe at each other, is there?" He stiffened and his mouth tightened.

"Felt sorry for me. Huh. Thanks, Granger."

"Well what did you think? You don't like me either, Malfoy!" Hermione flapped her arms uselessly at her sides and growled under her breath.

"Well...no, but... I don't need your pity!" Malfoy's voice rose as he shook his head, rejecting her sympathy, looking away from her, his mouth twisting unhappily.

"Well you haven't got anything else," Hermione said tightly, tears stinging at her eyes. It sounded awful but it was the truth. If he didn't want her pity, then what did he have left? His stupid bloody pride? That wasn't going to keep him company. Malfoy looked up at her then, sharp and furious.

"Then maybe you should go, because I don't fucking want that." He turned and walked away, sat down on the edge of his bed and Hermione was about say,  _"what do you expect, Draco? I'm trying my best here!"_ when the trapdoor opened and light flooded down.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice came down, and his smiling, tired face appeared in the trapdoor hole.

"Coming Harry," she answered, but she kept looking back over her shoulder as she surmounted the last few steps, at Draco sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her, his features perfectly composed. She half-wanted to go back down and try to talk Draco around, to make things as right as they ever  _could_  be between them, but she didn't.

It was much, much later, and Hermione was reading a book when she realised she had thought of Draco - there it was again - by his first name. Why on earth had she done that? Hermione stared at the small black print in her book but didn't see it, repeating in her head as though tasting the alien flavour of it; Draco.

_Draco._


	8. 7. One Simple Question

 

 _Oh I'm like a kid who just won't let it go_  
Twisting and turning the colours in rows  
I'm so intent to find out what it is  
This is my Rubik's cube  
I know I will figure it out

_[Rubik's Cube, Athlete]_

* * *

They woke Narcissa the next day. She had been too long in a state of unnatural sleep, and still sedated to the point of insensibility at the short times she had been brought out of it enough to take care of her bodily needs. It wasn't healthy. Hermione made sure she was present when the thin, pale woman was brought out of her magical slumber; like a fairytale princess from the tales Hermione's parents had read to her when she was a child, before she knew the magic was real. Only Narcissa's awakening was without the kiss of course - or the happily ever after ending.

Once Narcissa had shaken off the lingering confusion of her sleep and had time to process the memories that had occurred while she had been under Draco's  _Imperius,_  she had behaved with cold, haughty disdain. She had sat with spine straight and chin held high on the edge of the bed, ignoring the Order members present and smoothing her hair with slim white hands, brushing the wrinkles from the skirts of her robe. Narcissa had shown not the slightest bit of the anger and fear Hermione was sure she  _must_ have felt, but had instead asked coolly what the Order's plans for her were, whether her son was alive, and whether she could see him. Harry had informed Narcissa that Draco was indeed alive, and that no, she couldn't see him. Which was where Hermione stepped in.

"Harry?" she asked quietly but firmly, and he turned away from Narcissa.

"What, Hermione?" She tugged him a little further away from Narcissa, who watched the two of them with cold, pale eyes. They sent a shiver down Hermione's spine.

"Why can't she see Dra - Malfoy? Doesn't it make more sense to put them both in the cellar, anyway? Save on space?" Harry gave Hermione an odd glance as he caught her slip.

"It keeps them both on their best behaviour," he answered in a low voice. "Keep dangling the reward of seeing each other in front of them - not to mention the threat of, well... This way they'll be less likely to try anything." Hermione's lip curled and her mouth dropped open as she stared disbelievingly at her best friend.

"Harry you can't! That's just cruel! Besides,  _Malfoy_  isn't going to do anything! What kind of trouble could he cause? He's wandless and he has nowhere to go, no allies - nothing.  _He_   _handed himself over_   _to us!_ "

"You-know-who could be relying on our better natures -"

"Well he'd be sorely disappointed," Hermione interrupted darkly and Harry sighed and gave her a look that asked her to  _just wait_  for him to explain. "Sorry, go on, Harry."

"He might think that we'd be quite likely to just accept Malfoy's word, and let him...let him be under close guard but able to wander freely, socialise with Order members. Which would put Malfoy in the perfect position to start feeding information out to you-know-who." Harry lowered his voice even further, shooting furtive glances at Narcissa.

"You-know-who has no idea where our base of operations is, and I'm sure he must be getting desperate to find out. Nothing must be irking him more than the fact that we are able to attack and then disappear - with no way for him to strike at our base. So far. And you-know-who isn't bothered by sending Malfoy - or anyone - on missions with small chances of success. He views most of his followers as expendable. If he thought there was even a tiny chance that Malfoy might succeed in informing you-know-who of our location...he'd do it." Hermione shook her head firmly.

"No. No, there's no way." She believed that Draco's defection was genuine. She didn't  _want_  to believe otherwise; didn't want to think that all of it had been an act. Didn't think it  _could_  be. He was miserable and scared and angry, and none of it was a bloody act; Hermione would have been able to tell. "That's not... It's highly unlikely, Harry. I don't think Malfoy's lying, and besides that, I  _don't_  think that's you-know-who 's style."

"I know Vol- you-know-who better than you, Hermione.  _I've seen in his head_ ," Harry hissed under his breath. Hermione saw Tonks' and Remus watching them surreptitiously from her peripheral vision, and tried to ignore them.

"I don't think he's lying. I don't think he's a spy," she insisted, and an unoccupied corner of her mind wondered for the hundredth -  _millionth_  - time why she was defending Draco Malfoy so vehemently.

"Snape did it!" Harry's retort was loud, and Narcissa's blank pale blue-grey eyes rested on the pair of them. Harry's lips flattened together and he led Hermione out into the hallway by the arm with a nod to Tonks and Lupin, shutting the door behind them. He picked up where he'd left off. "For years. Dumbledore was  _convinced_  Snape was on our side. Except he wasn't. He was spying, for all those years. Insinuating himself with our side, getting all the inside information. Couldn't Malfoy be doing that?"

Hermione fixed Harry with a dry, disbelieving look.

"You're  _clutching_ , Harry. Snape didn't  _amputate his hand_  to play the part. Or  _Imperius_ his mother and bring her along. There's no reason not to believe Malfoy, and no reason to keep them from at least  _seeing_  each other." She waited while Harry stared searchingly at her, a vague puzzled suspicion in his expression. At last he said:

" _You're_  very concerned about him." Hermione was flustered at the implication but rolled her eyes to try to hide it, annoyance at Harry bleeding through in her tone.

"I feel sorry for him, Harry. Have you seen him? I mean, really  _seen him_? It's hard  _not_  to feel sorry for him." Harry didn't quite seem convinced and that irritated Hermione. What did he think she was - some silly little girl that Draco had twisted around his finger? Fooled with his charm? Merlin that was probably exactly what Harry was wondering, and he couldn't be more wrong. Draco wasn't charming in the slightest. All he had going for him was his ability to play the pity card, and from the way he had reacted when she had said she felt sorry for him, she didn't think that was his strategy somehow. Harry rubbed a hand over his faintly stubbled jaw.

"He was on the other side for years, Hermione. He was a Death Eater! I feel sorry for him too." He paused and rumpled his hair ruefully. "Sort of... But do you really think we can trust that he doesn't have some sort of ulterior motive?"

"I think his only motive is keeping him and his mother safe from you-know-who. I think we can trust him, yes. And even if he couldn't, there's no way he could get information out to you-know-who, not with all the wards on the house - and certainly not without a wand." Hermione crossed her arms and stared Harry down. "There's no reason whatsoever to keep Malfoy and his mother apart. Why are you so insistent on it? Are you just  _trying_  to make them both miserable or something?" Harry shrugged, tired green eyes clouding over for a moment.

"I can't deny that it's nice to have things the other way around for a change." His tone was flippant and Hermione frowned in response, her eyebrows scrunching together. This wasn't something to be flippant about.

"Harry it's not a joke. You're supposed to be better than they are."

"I  _am_  better than him, Hermione! If I were him, then I'd be trying to kill people, hurting people, and being an active member of a group that tortures and murders innocent people! How could you say that, Hermione?" Harry scowled, hurt and angry with Hermione, and she felt awful. Now she was fighting with Harry over Draco?

"You aren't exactly treating him humanely, Harry. What about the Geneva Conventions? I know that they don't apply to the wizarding world, of course, but shouldn't you want to follow them anyway?"

"How are we not?" Harry asked indignantly and Hermione thought back, trying to remember the school assignment she had done on the Geneva Conventions at the tender age of eight. She had been a rather precocious eight-year-old.

"Um...prisoners of war, which I suppose Dra- Malfoy counts as, are not allowed to be physically or mentally tortured, or otherwise coerced... And they have rights to proper hygiene - which Malfoy  _doesn't_  have, Harry. And, um...clothing? All he has are the things he arrived in and they're filthy." Hermione racked her brain. "And religious, intellectual or physical activities should be available to them." She looked at her friend with a distressed expression as she realised, "Harry! We're not following any of those except for the bit about the torture and coercion. We aren't even following the  _Geneva Conventions!_ "

He took his glasses off and polished the lenses, face drawn as he mulled over her words, their import sinking in. Hermione herself was horrified - they hadn't followed the rules! She - she always followed the rules. The Geneva Conventions were there for a reason, and although the wizarding world and wizarding war weren't totally analogous to the Muggle one, they should still be thinking of these sorts of things. She told Harry so, and he nodded wearily. "I know Hermione. We should have. But...I'd rather Malfoy was miserable than have even the smallest chance that the Order members here could be put in danger."

"We're  _always_  in danger, Harry. And that's an  _excuse_. You're treating Malfoy like this because you just don't care. Because you don't like him. But...but I don't like him either, and I see how he is right now...and I don't like seeing it. I feel...guilty," Hermione admitted quietly, and the two friends looked at each other for a long, sobering moment. "Isn't there a saying; that you should judge the quality of a man not by how he treats his friends, but by how he treats his enemies?" Harry looked down at the floor, her words sinking in.

"Shit.  _Shit_. He can see her then. Briefly. You - you do it, Hermione?" He swallowed and Hermione was alarmed by his manner.

"Why can't you?"

"I - I think I need to talk to Ron." He backed off a few steps, distracted and edgy. "Thanks 'Mione. And - don't leave them alone together, okay?"

"Wait, what? Harry's, what's going on? Why do you need to speak to Ron?" Hermione's brain scrambled and then suddenly she thought she understood. Harry was already at the top of the stairs halfway down the long hallway from her when she yelled after him. "Harry! Harry,  _what did Ron_   _do_?"

"I - I'll tell you later - you better get back in there." And with that he fled down the stairs with a fleeting apologetic glance at Hermione.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted again and stamped her foot in a fit of pique, but he was gone. She was torn, wanting to chase after him, corner Ronald and make them both explain themselves, but... Hermione's furious glare fell on the door to Lupin and Tonks' room. But, unfortunately Harry had left her a job to do. She scowled. Harry. She  _would_  find him; the house wasn't  _that_ big. She didn't let herself dwell on what exactly it was Ron had done to Draco - or was doing. Or was going to do. Merlin, Hermione  _hated_  not knowing things.

* * *

"Down here." Hermione heaved the heavy trapdoor open. "Remus, Tonks - could you wait here?"

"Are you sure, Hermione?" Hermione glanced at Narcissa, staring down through the trapdoor opening into the dim cellar with hungry eyes, unable to hide her emotions anymore it seemed. Narcissa had accepted her current situation with cold resignation so far rather than lashing out, and Hermione didn't think there was any chance she would start being difficult now. She just wanted to see for herself that her son was alive and unharmed.

"I'm sure," Hermione nodded and directed Narcissa down the stairs with a wave of her hand, following behind with her wand held loosely by her side.

"Granger?" Draco called, dully curious as they descended the stairs, and Hermione heard Narcissa's gasp at the sound of her only child's voice.

"Draco? Draco, it's me?" Narcissa picked her skirts up in her hands and nearly ran the last few steps to the cellar floor. Hermione stopped halfway down the stairs, feeling like she shouldn't be present. It was too intimate a moment for her to witness. Draco lay on his bed in that grey shirt and black trousers, his left arm draped over his eyes. And then Narcissa cried out his name, and he struggled bolt upright.

"Mother?" The one word was taut with shock and relief, and he stared at Narcissa with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Narcissa stood at the bottom of the cellar steps in profile to Hermione, and the young woman saw a smile touch Narcissa's mouth faintly, softening her cold, haughty features. Hermione's eyes darted to Draco, and she smiled herself as immense relief and happiness lit him up. It was gratifying, Hermione admitted, to know that Draco was happy because of something that  _she_  had done. She wasn't sure what to do with that thought, so she filed it away for later consideration, and watched the scene unfolding before her, a warm feeling in her stomach.

And then the happiness visibly drained from Draco.

"I'm sorry." There was an expectation of hurt in his face, his voice miserable as he slid to the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped as his eyes locked on his mother. Hermione only remembered just then what it might mean for Draco, to have put his mother under the  _Imperius_  and taken her away from her husband. But from what Hermione had seen since Narcissa had first been woken, her feelings toward her son right now were overwhelmingly love and worry. Narcissa took a few hesitant steps forward towards her son.

"You did what you thought was best, Draco. I understand," the woman said. " _Of course_  you wanted to go, after...after what happened. I just wish..."

"I'm so sorry, mother," he said again like a child, and from her darkened place on the stairs Hermione saw Draco's mouth quiver and his chin tremble with brewing tears.

"No. No, don't be sorry." Hermione couldn't see Narcissa's face as the older witch walked toward Draco, but she didn't need to; the woman's voice overflowed with pain and love. "I love you. I haven't said it enough. Haven't...haven't shown it very well. But I do, Draco. I swear it." The aloof, pale woman - so like her son - stopped a few feet away from Draco, and held out her arms.

Hermione watched as Draco scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms tightly around his mother. They clung to each other for a moment; Narcissa's face pressed into one broad, skinny shoulder. Draco's maimed arm lay across his mother's back, and the sight of it, still present even in this happy moment of Draco's made Hermione desperately sad. She thought maybe he was crying, but she couldn't tell from where she stood. Hermione had never felt more like an intruder in her life. And yet she couldn't pull her eyes away. It was so strange, seeing Draco clinging to his mother and, if not actually crying, then on the verge of tears. Hermione held her wand tightly in one sweaty palm and pressed her lips tightly together, moisture prickling at her own eyes.

"Are you all right? They haven't treated you badly?" Draco asked, looking worriedly down at Narcissa as they broke awkwardly away from their hug. Narcissa shook her head shortly.

"They only woke me a short time ago. Apparently they kept me asleep until now."

Draco nodded.

"That's what Herm- they told me, too." Hermione's breath caught and her eyes widened as her mind raced and her brow furrowed. He had been about to say her name. And not just her name, but her  _first_  name. Just how  _he_  had crept into her consciousness as a person that she thought of by his first name - without her even wanting to think of him that way. It had just happened. So, they were both, what? Starting to see each other as something other than a mudblood and a Death Eater? As people? Or even potential  _friends_?  _No_. That was going much too far. Ridiculous. Hermione denied the possibility, but her heart beat just a little faster and she felt inexplicably nervous and unsettled.

"What about you? They obviously haven't been treating you well. My poor boy," Narcissa said, all indignant concern, and Draco shrugged.

"It hasn't been all that pleasant, no. But it  _has_  been an improvement on the Dark Lord's recent treatment of me." Narcissa flinched and Hermione strained her vision to see the woman's hooded eyes darken and her face chill so very slightly.

"Look at you, Draco!" Narcissa brushed the backs of her fingers over one of Draco's thin cheeks and tsked at the grubbiness. "You're a  _Malfoy_  - they have no right to treat you like this. Blood traitors and mudbloods, mistreating my dear boy."

"Father disowned me. I'm not a Malfoy anymore, mother, not really," Draco said dully.

"He did what he had to do, Draco... I wish - I  _wish_  he could take it all back. So much. But of course, it's too late, now." Narcissa swept slim white fingers beneath her eyes as if to swipe away tears although her eyes were dry, and shook her head. "It's too late. I am so sorry, Draco. But if it hadn't been your father, it would have been someone else. You know that. That Dark Lord...he would not be moved, no matter how much I pleaded. And I did, Draco, I swear to you I did."

Narcissa clutched at her son as Hermione watched with slowly dawning horror. Draco detached his mother's clutching hands gently from his shoulders and looked down at her with sad resignation. The atmosphere in the cellar had altered, and Hermione felt her wand slip in her tight grasp, as her palms grew damp with nervous sweat.

"Regardless," he said composedly. "The accommodations here, crude as they may be, are preferable to the luxurious prison of my bedroom suite at the Manor. Or the  _luxury_ of the dungeons, which you know well were far worse than here." There was superciliousness in Draco's tone that made Hermione's lips twitch with a weak smile for some reason. "And although my jailers are mostly an unpleasant group, they...aren't all so terrible. And neither do they torture me, as I was tortured in my own home. By -" He broke off and ran his hand through his hair, shut his eyes as though trying not to remember.

"Blood traitors and mudbloods." Narcissa dismissed the Order in a sweeping statement of impressively offhand bigotry. "Why, it was that  _mudblood_ , Hermione Granger who brought me down here." Narcissa indicated in Hermione's direction and Hermione squirmed with embarrassment as Draco finally noticed her standing there on the stairs. She looked quickly down at the toes of her sneakers and avoided his eyes, and then heard Narcissa continue:

"The one Bellatrix tortured, wasn't she? It was  _her_  fault that you lost favour with the Dark Lord, and now she's your jailer? It's wrong. She's a mudblood, and they are inferior and we purebloods, are  _superior_." Narcissa sounded distressed, and Hermione couldn't believe that someone could be so casual about their bigotry - and within earshot of Hermione. It was...unbelievable.

She tried not to think about the torture.

She didn't know if she wanted to hear Draco's response.

"Mother...mother, I  _defected_ ," he explained firmly but gently, and Hermione's head snapped up. He was disagreeing about the validity of  _blood purity_? Narcissa seemed just as shocked as Hermione, wringing her hands together and gazing pleadingly up at her son.

"Draco... I know you had to leave the Dark Lord's service for your own safety, and I'm glad you did and you're safe now... But surely -  _surely_  - you're not saying you don't believe in blood purity anymore?" Draco shrugged and his gaze slipped away from his mother's, landing on Hermione's almost by chance.

"I don't know what I believe, mother. Maybe I don't anymore," he said tiredly; speaking to Narcissa, but with his eyes still glued to Hermione's. She smiled at him, small and faintly encouraging.

"Draco, your father and I brought you up to -" Narcissa fumbled for words, and then found them; vicious, cruel words: "How  _dare_  you turn your back on everything we have done for you! We tried to give you the best in everything, to give you a sense of pride and of your natural place in the world. All the best tutors when you were at home over the holidays, all the best things, the best-"

"No. No, you  _don't_  get to speak for father. You  _don't_. Not now, and not  _ever_  again. I don't care  _what_  you - and he - think he  _gave_  to me; it can never, ever equal what he took away from me," Draco half-snarled at his mother and Hermione thought of how just five minutes ago they had been embracing happily, and her heart broke just the smallest amount for Draco. And hot, sick thrills ran through her belly as Hermione thought she realised what Draco was talking about.

"He is a fine man," Narcissa said insistently and Hermione wondered whom she was trying to convince more - Draco, or herself. Draco's features contorted with pain, pleading with her to understand.

"Mother. Mother, I love you, I do. But I can't think of him that way. I really can't."

"If it hadn't been him, it would have been someone else," Narcissa repeated and Hermione's fingers were slick around her wand, and her heart pounded in her chest. Surely they  _couldn't_  mean... But Draco was speaking and Hermione listened.

"That would have been better! If it had to fucking happen, that's how it should have been!  _It shouldn't have been_   _my father!_ " Draco paused, and his voice went quiet. "It shouldn't have been him. But he didn't refuse. And so it was. And I can't forgive that. Not ever." Narcissa reached out to touch Draco's cheek again and he jerked back. She sighed.

"I think perhaps I should leave now. Before you say anything else you might regret."

Hermione wanted to hex the woman on Draco's behalf, but instead she thumped on the trapdoor for Lupin and Tonks, anticipating needing them to take Narcissa away.

"I think maybe that would be best," Draco answered, distant now, only the slightest traces of his emotions remaining.

"Very well." Narcissa didn't seem to want to leave; looking back over her shoulder at Draco as she walked away and ascended the stairs. She seemed to be waiting for him to call her back. He stared after her sadly.

"Mother?" She stopped a few steps below Hermione.

"Yes, Draco?" Her voice was formal but threads of hope wove through it, as if she was expecting an apology from him - needing one, so that she could forgive him for whatever she perceived his sins to be.

"I'm glad you're all right," was all he said. Narcissa just nodded and turned away, and Hermione saw Draco's face fall even further, his shoulders slump. The trapdoor creaked open just as Narcissa reached the step below Hermione's, and Hermione stuck her head up into the dining room.

"Tonks?" she asked the witch, whose hair was a startlingly green colour at present. "Could you and Remus take Mrs Malfoy back upstairs for the moment?"

"You aren't coming up?"

"Not yet."

"Fair 'nuff." Tonks' face was so expressionless that Hermione suspected she was hiding something.

"Go on," Hermione told Narcissa rudely, and then nodded amicably at Tonks as the older woman closed the trapdoor behind Narcissa. Hermione turned around and started slowly down the stairs. Draco stood by his bed, staring at the door his mother had disappeared through. He looked like total shite, poor thing. Hermione blinked at the thought -  _poor thing? Draco Malfoy a poor thing, really?_  She stopped a couple of feet away from him, swinging her arms in small, nervous motions by her sides.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I saw that. I know you would have preferred privacy, but Harry insisted that if your mother was going to see you it had to be supervised," Hermione babbled. Draco smiled close-lipped in tired amusement at her and the expression was surprisingly sweet, dulled eyes lighting up with silver life for a moment.

"It's fine, Granger." Hermione's fingers intertwined nervously, her wand shoved half in her pocket.

"And I'm sorry...I thought it would be a good thing, seeing her. But I guess..." Draco nodded.

"Again; it's fine, Granger. You weren't to know." He paused for a moment, gaze dropping to the dirt floor. "I knew it would be you. Who convinced the others to let me see her." Hermione had two questions buzzing in her brain, and she didn't know which to ask first, and she was pretty sure she had no right to ask either.

"What, Granger?" he demanded wearily before she could even speak.

"You were talking to your mother, and I couldn't help hearing - not that I was  _trying_ to listen..."  _That_  was a lie. "I just couldn't help it. But..."

"Ask, Granger." Draco gave her brusque permission, expression closing off and hardening, like a defence mechanism. Hermione took a deep breath, shuffled on her feet nervously and somehow the movements took her slightly closer to him, so she had to tilt her head back the smallest amount to meet his eyes.

"You really don't know what you believe anymore?" She frowned, waved a hand, and clarified. "To do with blood, I mean." He met her eyes clearly, honestly.

"I really don't."

"So you don't think mudbloods like me deserve to be tortured and murdered, anymore, then?" she pushed, and he flinched and fleeting guilt crossed his features, but he didn't look away.

"No.  _No_ , Hermione." He said her name and his voice was fierce as he recoiled from what he had believed, and she could nearly  _see_  the memories in his eyes.

"Well...that's good, isn't it?"

He chuckled cynically at that. "Not so good for  _me_ , if I'm to be selfish, which I frequently am. Life would be a hell of a lot simpler if I thought like my mother does. It would contain a lot less torture and terror."

"But you  _don't_  think like she does, now."

"Why do you care what I think? It's not like I can do anything to hurt anyone now, so why does it matter what I believe?" Draco asked quietly, closing the gap between them further so she had to look up. It was intimidating, almost, but Hermione knew Draco didn't mean it to really  _be_ intimidating. She gulped.

"Because I don't want to be just a  _mudblood_. Not to you - not to  _anyone_." Draco's eyes scanned her face and he nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever he had seen there.

"Fair enough." They were standing close. Barely a foot between them, and Hermione realised what a really very small distance a foot was. Hardly any space at all; she could feel faint warmth radiating off his body even though, as always, he looked too cold. It gave her a chance, she told herself, to really look at him, for possibly the first time ever. She had never bothered to really  _look_ at him before, without her brain layering over what she saw with her hatred for him. She was just interested, she told herself. And...

Draco was stubbled - but it looked quite good, Hermione had to admit - and his hair needed a good wash, his clothes smelt faintly of sweat, and he was  _definitely_  still too thin. But Hermione looked at him and saw his eyes, luminous in the dim light as he looked at her without a trace of malice, his lips not sneering but smiling at her faintly but genuine. He seemed suddenly far too appealing and she realised she had been just  _staring_  at him silently, and blinked rapidly, cleared her throat. Draco did similar, both of them equally uncomfortable it seemed, and Hermione's heart thudded hard. Hermione shook her head and made her mind focus.

"And I was wondering...?" she began quietly and Draco nodded with impatient encouragement as she trailed off.

"What, Hermione? Just bloody ask, already."  _Hermione_. He had used her first name  _again_ , so casually that she didn't think he even knew he'd done it.

"Your hand..." They both looked down at the maimed limb in unison, almost sandwiched between their bodies they stood so close together. "When you were talking to your mother..." Hermione met Draco's eyes, empathy making her want to cry as she asked the question.

"Your father did it, didn't he?" The air changed. Draco's face closed off and grew bitter and he took a halting step back from her. Hermione felt a chill as he distanced himself, the damp cool air of the cellar biting into her. He tensed, but his eyes didn't leave hers.

"Yes," he answered shortly, and pain etched itself into the lines around his mouth, the set of his eyes, which a moment ago had been almost warm. Warm on her. Hermione thought automatically of her own father. Her childhood; the books he had read to her at bedtime, the days out, just the two of them, to a different place every month - the museum, the zoo, picnics at the park... And when she got older and left for Hogwarts, those outings became a day out when Hermione was home from school in the holidays. Book shopping, seeing a movie together, picnics just like when she was a child.

Hermione remembered the way he had always been so proud of her marks at Hogwarts, even though he hadn't understood the subjects in the slightest. The love in his arms the last time he had hugged her before Hermione had  _obliviated_  both her him and her mum. The worry and protective anger in his eyes when Hermione had told her parents about a young Draco Malfoy being awful to her and calling her a mudblood. Hermione's dad would die before letting Hermione be hurt, and the idea of him hurting her himself...it was something she  _knew_  he would never, ever do. The very idea was abhorrent.

But Draco's father would do it -  _had_  done it - and Hermione couldn't help the gasp that tore from her throat as Draco confirmed her suspicions with that jagged, reluctant  _yes_. Fathers were supposed to  _protect_  their children not... As much as Lucius Malfoy had always been evil and horrible, Hermione had assumed that he would never be like that to his own son. She remembered the look of eager-to-please adoration in a small Draco's smug, infuriating face as he stood by his father's side, the conceited pride as Draco had bragged of ' _my_   _father'_.

Hermione stared at the haggard, disillusioned Draco that stood a few feet from her and wondered how much it had hurt him, when that little boy's hero-worship been dashed to smithereens.

"My god, Draco... I can't believe..." She spoke without thinking, the very idea of Lucius Malfoy having done that to  _his own son_  so alien, so awful, that Hermione couldn't comprehend it. But Draco took her words as a denial and his pale skin flushed burning red high on his cheeks.

"Well believe it," he snapped. "Because he did."

"No - it's not that I don't  _believe_  you!" Hermione stared into Draco's eyes, all ice and steel now, and her heart ached for the little boy he had once been. "I just...he's your  _father_. How  _could_  he?" How must it feel, to every day carry around the memory of your own father maiming you? Draco just shrugged.

"He's Lucius Malfoy," he said as though that explained everything, trying to be flippant, dismissive. Hermione had thought Lucius Malfoy had lines even he wouldn't cross. Apparently not.

"Draco, I'm so sorry." She realised belatedly that she was speaking his first name aloud, but couldn't bring herself to care. "I'm sorry," she repeated awkwardly. Draco looked away from her sympathetic face; eyes going to his arm, his mouth twisting.

"I don't want your fucking pity, Granger," he grated out, the muscles in his jaw twitching tensely as he looked down at the stump of his wrist.

"It's not pity, Draco," Hermione said calmly. And it wasn't. It was more than just that.

"Well what is it then, Granger? Because I seem to recall you telling me that there wasn't anything else." He smirked at her, the expression flat and cold. "Because we hate each other, don't we?  _There isn't anything else_." Hermione closed the gap between them and reached out. Her hand settled on his forearm - the injured limb. Not the stump; to be honest she was almost a little frightened of touching that, but the crinkled fabric of his shirt rolled to just below his elbow. Draco looked down at her hand, and the line of his mouth hardened, but didn't he didn't shake it off. Hermione shrugged.

"I like you well enough - when you're not being an obnoxious, evil prick, you're actually not unbearable," she said, an inelegant reassurance, and he grinned at her. Actually grinned. Just for a split second Draco's eyes crinkled and one corner of his mouth pulled up into a lopsided, almost dorky grin that transformed him. And then it was gone, like clouds sweeping in front of the sun, and he was grey and cold once more.

"Then I suppose you don't like me very often. If ever," he said, and Hermione bit her lip.

"Since you've been...here, I." She stopped, not sure what to say. Her hand was still on Draco's arm, the grey silk soft beneath her fingertips. "I don't hate you, Draco." He was cold and still, and then he said gravely, like it was a precious secret he was sharing with her:

"I don't hate you either. Hermione." Draco added her name deliberately. The corners of his mouth lifted again, his eyes thawed, and Hermione smiled back at him.

"Do - do you want to talk about...?" Hermione tried again, rephrasing. " _If_  you want to talk about...your father, about what happened," Her fingers stroked firmly over the thin material of his shirt, thumb rubbing over the inside of his elbow in small motions. "Then I can listen. And I won't tell anyone. I swear." Draco's hand folded over her smaller one, stilling the movements she hadn't known she'd been making. His hand was dry and cool on hers. They both stared at their hands laid together, an alien sight.

"No. I, I think I'd quite like to be alone right now, actually." Draco said at last, eyes apologetic, and Hermione nodded understandingly. Her hand slipped from beneath his, away from his injured limb, and it felt cold and lonesome.

"I'll...see you later on then. Maybe...dinner? I mean, I might bring it to you. Dinner, that is." Hermione shoved her hands in her back pockets and backed away from him, not knowing what on earth to say in this odd, fragile moment. Her cheerful, awkward tone broke it, and Draco looked from her eyes down to his feet.

"Yes. Yeah. I'll be here," he said inanely and then shot her a wry, self-deprecating glance. " _Of_   _course_  I'll be here."

Hermione spent her evening curled up on an armchair in the lounge seemingly lost in a book, while actually inwardly wondering - did these developments mean that she and Draco Malfoy were becoming...friends?


End file.
